Both Horse and Driver
by lulusgardenfli
Summary: The Curtis boys knew little about their father's family. There's a reason for that. A series of one-shots focusing on Mr. Curtis, his childhood and family.
1. Clouds

_**A series of one shots focusing on Darrel Curtis, Sr. and his parents, Dale & Laura. **_

_**A/N: S.E. Hinton owns Darrel Curtis and The Outsiders. The Outsiders inspired me to create Dale & Laura Curtis. "The Old Rugged Cross" was written George Bennard in 1912. I do not own the song nor the lyrics. I also do not own the film "The Rainbow Trail" which came out in 1925. **_

Darrel is two-weeks old when his mother discovers his love of horses.

Laura Curtis holds her son against the warmth of her chest. Her long dark hair forming a protective cocoon around the infant. He refuses to take her milk. She cajoles, he whimpers. She grimaces, he squirms. She rocks back and forth, he kicks left and right. She paces the small room; his screams fill every nook and cranny.

My son is already a stranger to me. She stares at the doe-eyed baby boy squirming in the crook of her arms. Her arms are sharp twigs, her breasts heavy clouds. He wants nothing to do with either one.

She turns on the radio to her favorite gospel station. Tapping her foot to the music, she warbles off-key to the infant. If I can't calm him down, she figures, surely Jesus will. But Jesus is playing hooky that day and all her singing does in cause little Darrel to scream even louder. The choir's desire to " _cling to the old rugged cross_ " a gentle breeze compared to his lightning bolt wails.

Laura hates her milk, hates her breasts, hates herself and most of all, hates the red-faced infant.

"What's wrong with _you_ ," she hisses at him. She wants to throw the crying, ungrateful brat across the room. For a second, she imagines him floating through the room and out of the window. She stares out the window and sees thick pregnant clouds hiding the blue sky. She then sees her husband Dale, hiding from her, drinking his Moonshine. She thinks about yelling out the window at him, but she is too tired to do anything but stare. Besides it wouldn't do any good. Dale would just continue to drink his Moonshine and Darrel would just continue to reject her milk.

She imagines the infant floating through the air and landing right on top of Dale's hooch. Brew and baby fall to the ground with a thud.

She shivers and grips the baby. She quickly scans the room as if someone is there, watching her. Reading her mind. Seeing those awful images of little Darrel cracking into 7x70 little pieces. As dark thoughts soak her mind, a rainbow appears in the form of a radio ad for a new Tom Mix movie.

" _The Rainbow Trail_ starring America's favorite cowboy, Mr. Tom Mix;" Laura hears the sound of horse hooves in the background. Laura knows that the "horses" are probably the clickity-clack of shoes in the radio studio. But, it sounds awfully real. Yes, it sounds like a hundred horses are just outside the house, maybe by the shed where Dale keeps his Moonshine.

When Darrel hears the "horses" he stops crying and presses his lips to his mother's nipple. He is calm, peaceful, hungry and ready to eat.

Laura looks down at her son, "the Lord works in mysterious ways," she laughs. Her laugh is soft and full. Like clouds.


	2. Pony Boy

A/N: S.E. Hinton owns.

Laura Curtis sweeps a strand of sweat-covered hair from her face. She rubs her hands against the pockets of her favorite apron-the white one with the pink posies.

"Lordy, would you look at that, a spider web." She sweeps away the cobweb under her kitchen cabinet.

"Lordy,"proclaims four-year old Patrick.

"Lowdy!" shouts two-year old Darrel.

Laura laughs. "Well aren't you two just the dickens!" Her eyes sparkle as she playfully swats the boys with her broom. Patrick laughs and Darrel squeals as his mother tickles his face with her broom.

"Lowdy!" Darrel shouts again and Patrick covers his ears.

This time, Laura places her finger to her lips shushing her son. She turns the volume on the radio knob up. "Ooooh, I love this song," she proclaims as a deep male baritone floats through the Curtis kitchen.

"I love it too, Mama." Patrick looks at his mother and smiles, but her eyes are closed, her body softy swaying to the music. She is in her own little world.

As his mother falls under the spell of the music, Darrel climbs down his chair and grabs the broom by the handle.

"I a horse boy!" He gallops around the kitchen on his broom stick horse.

"You mean COWboy," Patrick explains in the patient voice of an impatient child. He takes a bite of toast covered in marmalade.

"I ride horsie, not cows!"

Patrick, his lips covered in marmalade, mumbles, "you so little, you can only ride a pony. You a pony boy!"

"Pony Boy! Pony Boy!" Darrel, the towncrier, proclaims his new nickname for all to hear, a huge grin covered in toast, marmalade and bacon spreading across his chubby face.

Patrick giggles and rubs the top of his brother's thick hair. Pieces of toast fall into his lap and onto the floor. Darrel gallops towards his mother. The song is long over, but Laura is still standing against the counter, eyes closed, body swaying. She doesn't hear a thing.

But she feels it. She feels the wooden broom hit between her legs. She screams. It is a shout, a scream, and a wail all wrapped up in one. It is as harsh and as rough as dry, rocky soil. It is as piercing as a train whistle.

Her face contorts into an ugly shadow of itself. Her olive skin turns red, her round eyes narrow, her nose scrunches upwards, her mouth scrunches downwards and her teeth bear down. She pulls her hand back as far as it will go and aims for her son's face. Darrel hunches towards the floor and covers his face with one hand. The other hand is still holding onto his horse. He whimpers.

"Mama! It's just Darrel. He don't mean nothin'! He sorry he hit you. It's an accident. Mama." Patrick places himself between his mother and his little brother. Darrel's mouth is open, his face frozen and tears cover his face and neck. He doesn't know what to do. His body stiffens and legs shake.

"He just playin' horsie, Mama." Patrick grabs a hold of his mother's apron pocket.

His mother shakes her body and blinks her eyes. She looks down at her two sons, little Darrel still holding onto the broom stick, Patrick still holding onto her apron. She pushes Patrick's hand away. She closes her eyes for a second. She grabs a hold of the kitchen counter and squeezes it until her knuckles turn white. She takes a deep breath and wobbles out of the room.

"C'mon Pony Boy," Patrick places his arm around his little brother. Darrel is crying, but his mother still does not hear him.


	3. The Curtis War

**A/N S.E. Hinton owns Darrel Curtis. The Outsiders is the inspiration for this rather sordid tale. I, rather unfortunately, own Brother Elijah, Dale Curtis, Laura "Rachel" Curtis and the dead baby bird (spoiler!). Luckily for me, I also own Patrick Curtis. A landfill in Tulsa owns Bobo, Mr. Henry and the Curtis family photos.**

 **I'm experimenting with different narrative forms, this chapter is 3rd person through Patrick's POV.**

The creature resting against Patrick's shoulders is heavy and Pat is afraid that at any moment, he will lose his balance and come crashing to the ground. He hopes that if he falls he will at least land on the grass and not on the stones and jagged little rocks.

"Damn," Patrick thinks to himself, "I need to bump up these scrawny chicken arms of mine. "

Almost immediately, another thought pops in his head," please forgive me Yahweh, for swearing. I ain't no egg."

 _Mama had taught her boys that Yahweh was a 'more proper' name for God. She discovered this at the church she started to attend shortly after Darrel hit her with his horse-broom. The church was called "Friends of Yahweh" and was led by a short little roly-poly man with horn rimmed glasses called Brother Elijah. Brother Elijah stood 5'2 but had a voice that reminded Patrick of an elephant-a high pitched trumpet that blasted warnings of hell and eternal damnation for all who did not believe._

 _At "Friends of Yahweh" Mama learned that photographs were graven images and would upset the Lord. So in the rubbish went Darrel and Patrick's baby photos and Mama and Daddy's blurry wedding photo. Those were the only photographs the family owned._

 _Stuffed animals, Brother Elijah told her, were a more complicated subject; he could see the argument that they were graven images and thereby upsetting to Yahweh but also the counter argument that they were not graven images, and thereby Yahweh approved. But Mama was never one to see a gray zone when it came to her God. So in the rubbish pile went Darrel's teddy bear, BoBo and Patrick's teddy bear, Mr. Henry. Darrel and Patrick both cried, but Mama just told her boys that when they were all in Heaven, they would be thanking her._

 _When Daddy found out he yelled at Mama so loud and hard the house shook. Mama just repeated to Daddy what she told her boys, that someday, the entire family would be thanking her. Daddy didn't say anything else, but the next day Daddy stopped drinking his Moonshine out in the shed and started drinking at the kitchen table._

 _Mama learned a lot about names at her church. When Darrel was eight and Patrick ten she learned that their names were pagan names and therefore upsetting to Yahweh and clearly inappropriate for the god-fearing boys she was raising._

 _She also learned that 'Laura' was a pagan name and began to call herself 'Rachel.'_

 _She wanted to change the boys' names to something more Yahweh pleasing, but Daddy put his foot down-literally, right on top of Mama's tiny feet. He hadn't hurt her, just wanted to show her that he meant business and that no one was going change his sons' names. Especially not some half-crocked, imbecile that called himself "Brother" Elijah over at "Friends of Yahweh," or as Daddy called it, "Friends of Yahoo"_

" _He may got you believin' his nonsense, LAU-RA, but if he goes around changing MY boys' name, his holy self is gonna end up stinkin' up the holy Arkansas River." Daddy bit into Mama's name like it were an apple, hard and crisp._

 _Patrick, felt his stomach stir, kind of like it did when he ate too much licorice. He hated seeing his parents fight. "Mama," he smiled at the tiny woman, "it's okay, you can call me whatever you like."_

" _Not me!" Darrel piped up, "my name is Darrel. I like my name and I don't want no one callin' me nothing different."_

 _Daddy affectionately rubbed the top of Darrel's hair. "That's my boy; you ain't letting no Brother Elijah change you." He said this to Darrel, but his eyes looked directly at Mama._

 _Mama as she usually did in these situations glared at her husband and children and started to loudly speak in tongues, convulsing her body back and forth, praying that Yahweh would deliver these horrible sinners from the fire-lake of Hell that they were inevitably going to end up in if they did not change their ways._

That was two years ago.

Now, the creature resting on Pat's shoulders makes a snorting sound through his nostrils and Pat is afraid that at any moment he will start yelping and growling and wake up everyone in Christendom, or at least Muskogee, County.

"Easy there, easy," Patrick Curtis speaks in the same low, soothing voice that Darrel uses when talking to a sick horse. Only this time, the "magnificent creature" resting on Patrick's shoulders is not a 900lb American-Quarter, but a 240lb all-American male.

Dale Curtis is drunk.

# # #

 _A war has been waged in the Curtis home over the past few years. This war had no rules, a shifting no-man's land, plenty of sneak attacks and two very determined Generals._

 _On one side is Dale Curtis and his hooch; on the other side is Laura "Rachel" Curtis, Brother Elijah and her Bible._

 _The more Daddy drinks the more furiously Mama flips through her Bible. The more Mama speaks in tongues and talks about hell fire and damnation, the more Daddy drinks. Each attack is met by a counter attack until dinner time is nothing more than slurred words and Bible verses rat-tat-tating at each other like bullets from a Tommy gun._

" _And the fish that is in the river shall die, and the river shall stink; and the Egyptians shall loathe to drink of the water of the river," Mama says._

" _Woman," Daddy belches a hot, heavy burp of beer and roast beef, "I don't understand a damn thing you're tryin' to say. Speak English." He smashes his dinner plate on the floor._

 _Pieces of white china dust spread across the kitchen floor. It reminds Patrick of the pictures of dust storms sweeping the Panhandle he saw in the newspaper._

 _Darrel cringes at the sound of the broken plate, and he glares at the parent he holds responsible-Mama. Even though Daddy was the one who threw the plate, Patrick knows that his brother's sympathy is entirely with Daddy._

 _Mama simply returns the glare 100 fold, and for a second Darrel looks as broken as the dinner plate._

 _Before Patrick can say something, Mama storms out of the room, hugging her Bible to her chest like it was a nursing infant._

 _Patrick doesn't know if he should go after Mama, or try to calm down Daddy who still looks plenty hopping mad. So he does the one thing he can do, he puts his arms around his little brother and tries to comfort him._

" _C'mon Pony Boy, lets clean up this mess."_

 _As the boys clean up pieces of broken plate, Patrick looks up at his father. He is staring at the doorway that his wife stormed out of; he no longer looks angry, but real sad and wistful._

" _Mama's just plain crazy," Darrel mumbles as he sweeps up pieces of broken plate._

 _Daddy grabs Darrel violently by the wrists and yanks him off the ground._

" _Aaa," Darrel yelps in pain. Daddy holds Darrel up by his wrists, his feet dangling a couple of inches off the floor. Patrick thinks his brother sort of looks like a crucifixion victim struggling and twitching after being nailed to the big Cross of Daddy. Guilt stirs up in Patrick's stomach, what a blasphemous thought! How unpleased will Yahweh be with him._

 _Neither boys are strangers to Daddy's belt, but for the first time in his life, Darrel looks at his father with fear and trembling. Daddy is so angry he spits his words out at his youngest son, "Don't you ever, ever talk about your Mama that way." Daddy violently shakes Darrel, still hoisted a couple inches off the ground and wincing in pain._

" _But you're mad at her too," Darrel whispers. "You're mad too."_

 _Patrick thinks his brother must be awfully brave, or awfully stupid to talk back to Daddy, especially considering the state he is in. But Daddy just looks at Darrel and his lips start to quiver. "I ain't mad at your Mama," something in Daddy's voice breaks and he gently releases Darrel. Daddy walks out of the house, but he doesn't slam the door like he normally does._

 _Patrick has never seen his father cry before, and it is almost as scary as him yelling._

 _Ever since that day Patrick vows to keep peace within his family, he hates seeing his Mama upset, hates seeing his Daddy cry and most of all, hates seeing his brother afraid._

Keeping the peace is hard work, it means reading the Bible with Mama and waking up in the middle of the night to help a drunken Daddy stumble into the shed where he can sleep off his drinking.

Sometimes, Daddy is only a little bit drunk and he's funny and will tell Patrick a bunch of real wild stories. The type of stories that Brother Elijah over at "Friends of Yahweh" would throw a holy fit if he heard. Daddy has a loud laugh that fills up the night sky.

Other times, Daddy is very drunk and he will curse, swerve and threaten to break Patrick's "Injun nose." Mama had a Choctaw Grandmother, a "real Indian princess," Mama liked to say. When Daddy is sober he referrers to Mama as his "little Indian princess" when he's drunk he threatens to punch his son right in his "little Injun face."

Today, Daddy is so drunk he can barely stand up and hardly speaks at all. The only thing that fills up the night sky is the stench of whiskey. Patrick, twelve years old and all of 5'0 'carries' a drunk 240lb, 6'3 barrel chested man into a shed.

They get in the doorway and Patrick helps his father sit down.

Suddenly, an awful crunch is heard.

"What the hell?" Daddy mumbles, suddenly awake and lucid. He shifts his seat and removes a crushed baby bird. Before Patrick can say or do anything, Daddy flicks the dead bird out of the shed. It lands on the old water pump that lies between the shed and the house.

"Well, wouldya look at that Paddy boy, look like my big ol' ass ain't no match for that 'lil bitty bird." Daddy starts laughing. It is a high-pitched crazy laugh, and it scares Patrick because he has no idea when it is going to end. It seems like it will continue forever.

Patrick looks over at the water pump and thinks of a Bible verse he memorized, " _And the priest shall command that one of the birds be killed in an earthen vessel over running water."_

By the next morning the whole family is at the kitchen table eating grits and fried potatoes. Daddy is sober and telling Darrel a story. Darrel is leaning towards Daddy, his eyes wide with curiosity and joy. Darrel has no idea just how drunk his Daddy got last night. Mama is in her own world, furiously reading her Bible. Patrick stares out of the kitchen window and sees the dead baby bird lying on the ground.

He feels responsible. Guilt rushes through his veins. If he hadn't led Daddy to that very spot in that shed, that little bird would still be alive. He wanted to help Daddy, help Mama and most of all, help Darrel, but all he succeeded in doing was killing a baby bird.

The dead bird is the first casualty of the Curtis War. It would not be the last.

A/N: Egg is slang for a "crude person" source:


	4. Both Horse and Driver

**A/N: S.E. Hinton owns/inspired. Darrel, poor guy, had a real hard time staying consistent with the tenses. I kept on editing/re-editing and giving up. Let me know if there is any glaring mistakes. I had a hard time getting Darrel's voice in this chapter (he's approximately age 10 - 12). I'm thinking at times he sounds a bit young. But, my excuse is that until his confrontation with his mother (oooh, spoiler) he was largely innocent/naive-maybe even a bit like his youngest son? :D I also included a little backstory for the Windrixville Church that Dally, Pony and Johnny visit. ;)**

 **Faith**

There are a lot of churches in my town, mostly Baptist, but also Methodist and a few Holy Roller types. Then, there is Mama's church, Friends of Yahweh.

The first time I visited Friends of Yahweh, I was shocked. The "church" looked like it was made out of a single clapboard, it had no windows and it sloped down so really tall men, like my Daddy, had to bend their necks to get in the doorway. Daddy went to Friends of Yahweh for one Sunday and decided that was ENOUGH for him.

The county safety inspector was sent to Friends of Yahweh on four different occasions cause people complained about Brother Elijah's shoddy construction work, but nothing was done.

"That Brother Elijah don't have the sense God gave a Bulldog," Daddy said. I never knew what that meant, but I laughed.

Patrick and me had to attend church with Mama. I tried every trick in the book to get out of going to that place.

"Gee, Mama, this church sure looks like the type of hideout ol' Pretty Boy Floyd would have loved!"

To which her only reply was a curt, "If that miserable heathen had a church like Friends of Yahweh he wouldn't be all that trouble."

I tried a different tact. "Mama, them darn peckerwood churches look nicer than this place. We get any kind of storm, and the entire church is gonna blow away!" Mama just told me to hush up and that Yahweh would protect and provide.

I tried to enlist my Daddy in my cause. "I don't understand," I yelled to Mama at dinner one night, "why we have to go to church and Daddy doesn't. It ain't fair! If Daddy doesn't go, I ain't going!"

My Daddy just told me that if I sassed my Mama like that again, he'd personally deliver me to St. Peter and his Pearly Gates himself.

Paddy just told me to let it go.

So, every Sunday Mama, Patrick and me walked down to Friends of Yahweh; and I spend 4 hours praying that the roof wouldn't collapse on us.

"This place ever catch on fire, it's gonna be a real death trap!"

But my appeal to Mama's sense of maternal obligation and self-preservation fell on deaf ears.

Mama looked at me like I was nuts, "this is a house of the Lord, Yahweh will make sure that nothing happens to the building or the people in it. Yahweh will protect His house and people from fire."

Sometimes, I wish I had Mama's faith.

 **Snakes and Horses**

Mama never believed me, but I went church almost every day. The difference was that my church was the stables, the hills and lakes around my town. I love people, I love the outdoors, especially fishing and hunting with my Daddy, but most of all, I love horses.

Ever since I was six my goal in life was to get a bunch of horses and buy a real ranch in Texas.

Daddy told me that I need money to do that, and he ain't got but two pennies to rub together. Besides, with all em droughts who knows what kind of land would be available when I come of age.

I just told him to hold on, because I'm going to do it. Gonna raise cattle and maybe ride in rodeos too. He laughed, but it wasn't his regular, big, joking laugh. It was a bitter, sour laugh and my stomach did a little flip flop.

Patrick and I both rode in rodeos. Patrick tried it once, fell off his horse and ain't never ridden on another horse again. When I saw him fall, my stomach sank to my feet and my heart got stuck in my throat. I'd never been that scared in my entire life. I started to cry out to Yahweh, Mama, Daddy, heck, even Brother Elijah, for help. I wanted to punch that horse for throwing my brother, and I ain't never got angry with a horse in my life. Paddy though, after brushing off the dirt on his legs just sat up and waved at me.

I have to admit, it was nice knowing there was one thing Paddy wasn't good at.

Me, I fell a lot, but I kept on going.

My Daddy and Mr. Charlie Stead have known each other since childhood. Mr. Stead owns "Stead's Stables" where I landed my first job in 1935. Mr. Stead couldn't pay me much, but he promised that he would teach me everything he knew about horses.

I made one heck of a bargain.

 **Buttercup**

My favorite horse is named Buttercup, which is kinda a sissy name, but she's a real strong girl. I take good care of her.

One day, Mr. Stead brought me into his office. "Darrel, you are real good boy. Why, you are the hardest working stable boy I have and I couldn't make it without you."

I thought my grin was gonna break my face.

"You know, son, I can't really afford to pay you. I certainly can't pay you what you are worth."

"That's okay Mr. Stead, just being around the horses, and you, is enough." I really meant it too.

"Well, son, it ain't enough to me. How about this, you continue to work for me for at least five more years and I'll give you Buttercup? Of course, I understand you needin' to get another job and stay in school, so I'm just asking for one Saturday a week."

Have you ever been so excited you can't react? Like you are frozen with happiness? That was me on that day.

When I got home I told my Daddy, "You better get ready to visit me in Texas. I already got me a horse, now all I need is to buy me a ranch."

He didn't say anything, but just poured himself another shot of corn liquor.

Now, all I needed to do was the countdown the years until Buttercup official became mine, and think of a better name than _Buttercup_.

There's a whole bunch of people hanging around Stead's Stables. I like to listen to their stories and talk with them. If I see a bunch of grizzled old guys I always ask them if they were real cowboys back in the day.

I picked up quite a lot of cusses and a love for chewing tobacco from those men.

I did errands around the house for Mrs. Stead. Mrs. Stead came from Boston and she spoke kinda funny, but she made me flour biscuit cookies with raisins, so I couldn't complain.

"Darrel, what church does your family attend?" Mrs. Stead poured me some fresh milk for my cookies.

In our town the first question people ask you isn't "who you kin to?" or "where you from?" but "what church you belong to?"

And even though I liked Mrs. Stead, its real embarrassing when you gotta say you attend Friends of Yahweh.

"Friends of Yahweh, ma'am, I go there with my brother and Mama." I looked at my cookie like it is the most interesting thing in the entire world, and hope she'd drop the topic.

"Your father attend Friends of Yahweh?"

I turned bright red, my Daddy didn't go to any church and it was a sore subject around my house.

"No, ma'am, but he prays a lot." I figured if you count all the times he yells "Goddamit!" and "Jesus Christ!" as prayers, I wasn't really telling a fib.

"Your father is smart man," Mrs. Stead didn't say anything else, but she had my curiosity peaked.

Over the years I learned a lot about horses from Mr. Stead, a lot about people from Mrs. Stead and a lot about cussin' and whores from the cowboys.

 **Snakes and Snake Charmers**

Every summer a bunch of snake charmers came and set up tents outside the fair grounds. I loved watching the snake charmers, they're real cool guys.

Mrs. Stead just crinkled her nose when I told her about the snake charmers.

"I can only imagine the type of diseases those snakes have. Speaking, of snakes, remember when 'Mama Margeaux' came carousing into town, Darrel?"

Boy, oh, boy did I remember.

A few years ago, some lady named Mama Margeaux came to town. Mama Margeaux claimed that she was from this area but was kidnapped by wild Indians as an infant and sent down the Mississippi, 'just like Moses,' she told us, in case we missed the connection. She floated all the way down to New Orleans where she was taken in by a real Voodoo Priestess. This Voodoo Priestess taught Mama Margeaux everything she knew, and pretty soon Mama Margeaux was placing curses on people. Until one day, she found Jesus, renounced her Voodoo ways and traveled between Oklahoma and Arkansas spreading the Good News in her old Jalopy.

Mama Margeaux was laughed out town. For one, there were no wild Indians in this part of the state. For another, someone claimed to have seen Mama Margeaux's picture in a newspaper and her real name was Bella Thibodaux and she was an actress who fell on hard times. Some people felt humiliated by Mama Margeaux.

I liked Mama Margeaux; I figure anyone who could spin a yarn that crazy gotta be good for something. She kinda reminded me of the cowboys I hung out with, about half the things they told me was a lie, but they're good stories, so I didn't mind.

A few months ago, some people from the government came by with film crews to make a picture about the farmers in this area, and apparently Mama Margeaux was hired as an extra, spreading the good news about her latest savior: President Roosevelt and the New Deal.

I only tell the story of Mama Margeaux to explain that the people in this area are smart and not ones to fall for con artists, which makes Brother Elijah's ability to twist the entire area out of shape a strange occurrence.

The country club set from Muskogee looked down on Friends of Yahweh in general and Brother Elijah in particular. Usually, I don't care what em rich biddies think, but I had to admit, I think they were right when it came to Brother Elijah.

Brother Elijah, according to Mrs. Stead, was really named Herbert Weston. Mr. Weston was a faith healer up in Windrixville. Mr. Weston promised the good folks of Windrixville he would heal their injuries and illnesses, but the only thing he healed was the lithe figures of three girls. After rumors spread that he impregnated three local girls, Mr. Weston had to hop the freight train out of Windrixville to escape a court of law and worst of all, their daddies. Mr. Weston escaped unharmed, but one newly minted grandpa was so mad he tried to burn down Mr. Weston's church. He didn't succeed, but no one ever stepped foot in that old church ever again.

Hmm, maybe Mama was right about God protectin' His house from fire.

It was our good luck that Mr. Weston headed east, changed his name to Brother Elijah and a few years after he left Windrixville formed Friends of Yahweh.

Armed with my new information on Brother Elijah's past I couldn't wait to confront Mama.

 **Prelude to a Sermon**

My Mama always said that "Brother Elijah is touched by the hands of God." And my Daddy always replied, "He's touched alright."

I never could find a good time to tell Mama about Brother Elijah's past. I wasn't shy and had no fear of a whipping or nothing like that. But as much as I hated to admit it, Mama seemed happy at Friends of Yahweh. The weight on her shoulders would melt away after spending time at that church.

I couldn't take away the one place where she seemed happy; even if it was run by a scoundrel.

Mama wasn't the only person who found solace at Friends of Yahweh. After floundering for years, by the time I turned 12 Friends of Yahweh became popular. The little run down shack was replaced by a brick building with a Sunday school room, a big meeting hall, offices and reading rooms. Stained glass replaced the wax paper windows and there were rumors that Brother Elijah was going to install air conditioning in the church. Mama said this was all proof that Brother Elijah was touched by the Spirit and doing Yahweh's work, but I think it was more due to all of the problems people were having.

Paddy told me that Brother Elijah understood what people need when times are rough. They don't want promises that everything would be better, or that this was just the Lord's way of testing them.

"Nobody wants to be a Job, Darrel."

No, they want to know that the people who wronged them would suffer. That is what Brother Elijah gave us. He promised the farmers that the banker who foreclosed on their farms would spend all of eternity eating sulfur. He promised the bankers who could no longer afford to send their children to college that politicians would be torn from limb to limb. He promised the sharecroppers who couldn't rub together two pennies and whose children starved with bloated bellies that one day the boss man would fall into a lake of fire.

It may not have been very Christ like, but it was popular.

That's why, my brother told me, people who could barely feed themselves were willing to give all they could to Brother Elijah.

 **The Sermon**

By the time I was twelve I had resigned myself to the fact that my Sundays belonged to Mama, Brother Elijah and Yahweh. And so, I sat in my itchy Sunday suit that I had outgrown two years ago, listening to Brother Elijah preach.

The first time I saw Brother Elijah preach, I thought he was having a fit. He wheezed and sneezed and made a bunch of BAH-HUMPHF sounds. Patrick told me he was feeling the Spirit. In between feeling the Spirit, he talked a lot about hell and damnation and every now and then about God.

That Sunday sermon was on Exodus 15.

" _They was singing_ ," Brother Elijah started to sing, he had a surprisingly deep baritone for such a small man.

" _Moses n' Mariam, singing out to Yahweh! There was EVIL, so much EVIL in them old Egypt times, but Yahweh, Yahweh delivered them Israelites, and what did HE do? What did HE do when he saw this evil in His house? So much EVIL in His house?_

 _Did He just tell em to LEAVE?"_

Mama shouted 'no' from her seat.

" _That's right, Sister Rachel. He did not. What did He do when He was faced with evil in His house? Did He say, well, you 'Gyptians are MY children too? I hath made you from the rib of Adam?_

 _No, brothers, sisters he did not."_

Brother Elijah got real quiet and walked up to the pews, like he was about to tell us a great big secret.

" _You know what He did folks, you know, Moses and my gal Mariam sang about it, praisin' Yahweh. He drowned them Egyptians, drowned them both horse and driver and let the Israelites pass._

 _They sang; Yahweh is a MAN of WAR. The RIGHT Hand is GLORIOUS in power. Yahweh is my strength and song I will sing unto Yahweh!"_

Mama and a few other folks started to sing, their voices a choir for Brother Elijah's preaching.

" _And so, brethren, when people do wrong to us, to wrong to HIS mighty name, when have no choice but to drown em' both horse and driver into the river of righteousness. I don't care if it is your Mama, your Daddy, or even your son or daughter, if they serve Satan, no mercy shall be given. Don't matter who ya are, you walk with the Devil and disease and death shall be yours. Even if they tempt you, and Lo, they will tempt you, show no mercy or quarter. Drown 'em, horse and driver._

BAH-HUMPHF."

I looked at Mama her eyes were a glow with fury and righteousness, her mouth open taking in Brother Elijah's words as her own.

 **Sunday School**

After the main service, Paddy and me were sent to the upper Sunday school for 10 to 14 year olds. We have a new Sunday school teacher, Sister Ruth. She's okay, but I missed my old teacher, Sister Carrie, she was real nice.

I carved a horse into the bench with my pocket knife. I wasn't trying to be disrespectful, sometimes I just don't think. Besides, I really like horses.

Sister Ruth was droning on about love when she asked me, "Brother Darrel, who do you love more than anyone or anything in the world?"

I figure it being a church, I should be honest. "I love my brother Patrick more than anything in this world, Sister Ruth."

Silence. Some of the kids started to giggle; other kids put their hands in front of their mouths, Buddy Smith just continued to read his Flash Gordon comic. I need to remember to buy some more comic books the next time I'm in Muskogee. My brother just stated to sink down in his seat.

Sister Ruth just pressed her lips together, "Silence children! Now, Brother Darrel, I am going to ask you again, who do you love more than anything?" She tapped her stick on the floor and the entire room was staring at me, which didn't make me feel too hot.

I can get away with a lot. Mostly because I can charm my way out of any trouble I get into, but that Sunday I didn't feel like being nice, or making a joke or apologizing my way out of trouble. I stood up, and for a moment Sister Ruth backed away. I'm big for my age. "Sister Ruth, I love my brother more than anyone or anything in this entire world."

"You love your brother even more than Jesus?" Sister Ruth has her hands on her hips and she looks at me with a self-satisfying smirk.

"Sister Ruth," I said, "I love Jesus, but I love Patrick even more. Paddy can pitch a no-homer game, I ain't never read about Jesus doing that. Besides, Jesus' Daddy killed a bunch of horses. I don't think He shoulda done that, even if they was with the Egyptians."

Now, I know that was a mouthy thing to say, but she was asking for it.

Sister Ruth looked like she swallowed a lemon, "hmm, just wait until your Mama, the Elders and Brother Elijah hears about this!"

At the mention of Brother Elijah, something in me just snapped. I thought about how Mama looked at him like he was the Savior and how Mama seemed to almost be in a trance listening to him preach.

"Miss. Ruth," I began, "I don't give a shit what Brother Elijah thinks. The only thing we ought to be worried about is how many girls Brother Elijah is gonna to make great with child before he leaves town on the 2 AM freight."

A riot broke out in my class. Some of the kids were on the floor with laughter, and I grinned at them. Hey, I like making people laugh. Other kids were on the floor with Holy twitches, praying for my wayward soul. Buddy Smith took advantage of the general craziness to stop reading his Flash Gordon comic and stuck his wad of Wrigley's in Becky Wood's long black hair. Patrick just turned real white.

 **Both Horse and Driver**

I had never seen Mama so mad in all my life. She was so mad, she could hardly walk straight and Patrick had to steady her a few times to prevent her from falling over. I would have helped, but I was so nervous I had my fists jammed in my pockets the entire trip home.

I figured when we got home Mama would belt me once or twice, and send me up to my room without any supper.

Instead, when we got home, Mama just walked up the stairs to her bedroom. She didn't stomp, didn't yell, she was real calm. For a second I sighed a breath of relief, she ain't gonna punish me. But then she turned around and looked right through me.

I mean it. Looked at me not with hate or with love, or with any feeling, but looked at me like I didn't exist.

I hadn't cried since I was a little kid, but I wanted to cry then. "Patrick, she's looking at me like I'm a ghost!"

We followed Mama up the stairs and stood outside her bedroom door. There, in her rolling voice she started to recite the Bible from memory. She started in a whisper and rolled into a thunder.

"Mama, please answer the door!"

Mama shouted out Scripture in an even louder voice.

"Yahweh is my strength!"

"Mama, I understand if you're mad at me, please just whip me, ground me, but talk to me."

We formed a strange choir, me begging and Mama screaming.

Patrick told me that I should just leave Mama alone, "maybe she needs to be alone for a while. Let her read her Bible and in a few hours she'll be just fine."

But, I'm not patient.

Mama has locked the bedroom door and I rammed it open. Paddy always tells me I should join the football team when I go to high school in a few years.

Mama looked at me, the blank of expression replaced by shock and then anger. Damnit! Why didn't I just listen to Patrick?

Mama turned on me like sick dog.

"Leave Satan!" Mama barked this at me, each time her tone getting more and more desperate.

"Mama, I ain't Satan, I'm your son, Darrel." I tried to say this as calm as I could, but it was hard with my mother screaming her head off at me.

"You are not my son! My sons are good and holy people who walk with the Lord. You WALK WITH THE DEVIL!" Mama screeches this last part so loud that her mirror falls of the wall.

"Mama, I know all about Brother Elijah. I heard from Mrs. Ste- from someone, that Brother Elijah ain't who he says he is."

"Oh, Lo The right hand is glorious in power. Yahweh is my strength and song I will sing unto Yahweh!" Mama got down on her hands and knees and started making a strange wailing noise.

"Mama," Patrick began, but Mama jumped up, a look of pure hatred crossed her face. I can't describe it, except to say that it was horrible. She looked at me, she looked right at me, and said, "Get behind thee, Satan!"

She slapped me so hard my I fell down.

"Mama," Patrick tried again, but Mama turned on him, and punched him right in the jaw. Patrick is a lightweight compared to me, and Mama's punch knocked him out for a few seconds. When he comes to, his mouth was covered in blood. A look of confusion crossed his face, and he spits out his blood right on Mama and Daddy's bed sheets.

"You're just like him!" Mama screeched.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I shouted at her. "You're crazy, you know what. You are crazy. You talk to Ezekiel and Amos like they're your family and don't know a blasted thing about us." I'm near tears, I didn't know if it is seeing Patrick and his bloody mouth or seeing Mama lose her mind, but I felt like I was going to lose it.

"I walk with the LORD!" Mama shouted, her face contorted and her body shaking.

"No you don't Mama, you walk with Brother Elijah, and he ain't nothin' more than a…"

"Darrel!" Patrick shouted at me, "shut up!"

"Mama," I said as calm as possible, "I'm sorry for what I said in Sunday School, I didn't mean to upset you or Sister Ruth. I do love Jesus. I guess I even love Jesus even more than Patrick. I'm sorry I embarrassed you. But Brother Elijah isn't a good man." I gave her my biggest, cuddliest smile.

She slapped me again on the same cheek, this time, even harder. The left side of my face was numb and tingly, Patrick looked like he wanted to burst into tears, which I think was pretty funny, cause Mama belted him way worse than me.

"You know what Mama? The only preaching Brother Elijah does is to get into ladies' panties. I don't know why a Christian woman like you chooses to follow that con. Unless…"

Mama just looked at me and started to laugh, "Oh, the Lord sayeth I shall be tempted! Oh, how I am being tempted, by my own son! Oh, so much EVIL in this house, so much EVIL."

I just stood up and turned to face her so my unblemished cheek is in front of her. "Mama, I may not know the Scriptures, but I know enough not to let a worthless fool like Brother Elijah into my heart. I also know that the Bible tells us to 'turn the other cheek' so, I am turning my other cheek to you, go nuts."

She did.

She clawed me and knocked me silly.

Patrick tried to take her off me, but it was a rather vain effort. Patrick and I were both taught by our Daddy to never, ever lay hand to a woman, even if they deserved it. Plus, Mama may be a very tiny woman, but she was a very tiny, angry woman and we were no match for her.

I didn't know how much more I can take, I felt real dizzy when my Daddy walked through the room.

"What the hell, is going on in here?"

He pulled my Mama off of me.

Mama said in a real calm voice, "it seems that our son," she spits out the word 'son' with such contempt even my Daddy is taken aback, "is serving the army of Satan."

"Laur-, Rachel, sweetheart, neither one of our sons is serving Satan. Now, will you tell me what he did?"

"He said blasphemy in HIS Holy place!" Mama roared at Daddy, and for a second, I'm not sure if the 'his' referred to God or Brother Elijah.

"He then spoke EVIL against Brother Elijah!"

My father just looked at her, "Now, darlin' I'm sure Brother Elijah is strong enough in spirit to handle whatever a 12 year old boy throws at him. How about we all just calm down, boys you two go to your room. Rachel, how about we…"

Mama then loses it, "Brother Elijah told me my family would try to tempt me and destroy me! Oh, how right he is, how right he is."

I decided that I hate Brother Elijah with all of my heart; if that makes me Satan's soldier, so be it.

 **Love Your Enemies**

That evening, Daddy talked to me and Patrick. The first thing I noticed was how old my Daddy is. I mean, my Daddy is a young man, but his eyes looked real old and worn out.

The second thing I noticed was how sad my Daddy looked. My Daddy is either laughing and talking, or screaming and shouting. But he's hardly ever quiet and thinking.

"Boys, I gotta tell you somethin' this ain't gonna be easy for me. First of all, your Mama had no right to yell at you like that," I was surprised, because Daddy has never admitted that Mama is wrong about anything to us.

"Secondly, while your Mama don't have no right to treat you like she do, she has her reasons. They ain't necessarily right reasons, but they are her reasons. Like I said, your Mama was wrong to hit you, but she didn't just do it cause she was mad, she had her own reasons."

"But, sir, what are her 'reasons'?" Patrick asked.

Daddy looked down at the floor, "your Mama needs a lot of love. I know that ain't a good answer. But it's the truth. Your mama has been badly hurt and she needs a lot of love. Now, I know I ain't a believer like your Mama is, but I believe the Good Book say, "love thy enemies" now, your Mama ain't your enemy, she is a good woman. So, if you can "love your enemies" that persecute you, surely you can love your Mama who hurts you too."

That didn't answer anything.

"I'm not trying to sass you Daddy, but why is she this way? Why does she follow a con-artist like Brother Elijah? Surely he don't walk with the Lord."

My father turned to me and puts his hand on top of my knee, "You know, I don't care much for Brother Elijah, I don't think he's fit to tie a bum's shoe, never mind leading a congregation. But, sometimes, people are there for us in our time of need and Brother Elijah was there for your Mama when she needed help. For your sake and your Mama's sake, just let it go."

I woke up early, and saw my Mama at the kitchen table, reading her Bible. My face smarted something awful, but I tried to smile at her.

"Hello, Mama, how are you doing?"

My mother looked at me and said in a real calm voice, "Darrel, if you ever ask me to choose between my God and you, I will choose my God every time."

 **A/N: Little historical note, Pretty Boy Floyd (1904-1934) grew up in the hills of Eastern Oklahoma.**

 **ETA: ooh, boy. So re-reading this and noticing a lot of tense errors. Ugh, sorry about that. Going to go back to edit, sometime in the future. Hopefully it doesn't completely ruin the effect of the piece. (only semi-ruin ;) ).**


	5. Confession Day

**Note: Mama, Sister Rachel, Rachel Curtis is the same person. She is Darrel (Sr's) mother. Her original name was Laura, but after joining a rather odd church called "Friends of Yahweh" she changed her name to Rachel.**

 **Warning(?) Issues of spiritual abuse, physical abuse**

 **I kinda want to go back and edit this piece and make it more focused on painting a mood, rather than a retelling of an event; but I'm stuck. Here goes:**

# # #

(Saturday, September 17th, 1938)

"You sure it'll work?" Her light eyes widen.

He looked at her, hesitating, as if he wasn't quite sure if he should speak the truth or not. "Sister Rachel, I ain't no see-er, I ain't no prophet either..." He pauses. He clearly wants her to say that he is indeed a prophet, but she just nods. He continues, "but I know if you want your boy back, if you want your family back, you gotta try."

"What if it don't work?" She speaks softly, she is not use to questioning him.

"Then you gotta toss him out like Yahweh did to them Egyptians."

She looks down at her clunky shoes, covered in dust no matter how hard she struggled to clean them.

"Listen Sister Rachel, I understand you're his mama. But you are also a child of Yahweh. If your boy chooses to go on the path of unrighteousness that his decision, but don't let him drown the rest of you with him."

She looks at the man, "I don't even know who he is anymore. He's a stranger to me." Her voice starts to crack, but she doesn't cry. She never cries.

He looks straight into her grey-green eyes, "do you have faith in me Sister Rachel? Do you believe that I can heal your boy?!"

She nods, softly at first, then with vigor.

His voice picks up in tempo.

"Oh, Yahweh! We ask thee to remove Satan from Brother Darrel's heart! Show him your love!" He screamed up at the heavens, as if daring the Almighty to rebuke him.

The fire in her eyes is back, she looks at him and then up at the Heavens, "Amen, Brother Elijah. Amen."

# # # (Sunday, September 18th, 1938 – Friends of Yahweh)

She sat on the pew, tapping her fingers against her thighs. She looks at him. He wore a big grin on his face, and for a moment, Rachel felt her heart flutter. He reminded her of a lion: husky, dark, gold and wild. Patrick was her lamb: small, pale, pink, and good. She needed to protect her lamb from her lion.

He was getting so tall, just turned 13, but already bigger than everyone in his family except for his Daddy. His pant legs only came up to his lower shins, and for a brief second she had wished she had bought him a new suit. With Dale's new job, they had enough money to afford new suits and dresses every now and then.

She shook her head. What a heathen thought to have on Yahweh's Sabbath. It didn't matter how old or worn the clothes were, it only mattered what lied inside the heart of person wearing the clothes. And Rachel Curtis was worried, because inside her son's heart slept Satan.

Brother Elijah said she wasn't to blame. She tried to raise him right, tried to have him walk in the path of righteousness. But lately, he began to voice these horrible, awful thoughts. First, he lied about Brother Elijah, saying he had his way with girls in Windrixville. Then, well, the stuff she saw in his bedroom and heard him say to his brother late at night, they were too horrible to even think about in a place as holy as Friends of Yahweh.

But Rachel was still his mama, despite everything he had put her through, she loved her lion and wanted to save him. The only question was, did he want to be saved?

She closed her eyes and started to pray. Her lion and her lamb both at peace.

She stood up and walked towards the front of the congregation.

* * *

# # # (Sunday, September 18th 1938, Curtis home, just before church)

After Mama's outburst, life at the Curtis home went on.

Daddy got a good paying job cutting down logs for the WPA. He traveled all over Oklahoma and was rarely home. When he was home, he told Darrel of all of the people he met and adventures he got into. He still drank, but according to Daddy, so too did just about everyone else.

"For a dry state, there sure is a heap of cops and preachers gettin' their jig on," Daddy said with a wink.

Patrick dropped out of school. Mama was upset, but Daddy, who only completed school up to the 7th grade, just shrugged. "He's 15, in my mind, that makes him a man. He don't want to go to school and he ain't causing nobody no trouble, I don't see what the problem is."

Patrick worked two jobs, filling in as a weekend janitor at Hansen's Pharmacy and working full time down at McGrady's Garage. He came home smelling like sweat and oil and covered in grease. But, he was happy.

Darrel did nothing to improve the olfactory state of the Curtis home, spending all of his free time, and an occasional day of hooky from school, down at the stables. Mr. Stead had started to pull in enough income that he was able to pay Darrel for his work. But he still promised Darrel that in two years when he turned 15, he would get Buttercup.

"A promise, is a promise," Mr. Stead said.

Then there was Mama.

At first, Darrel was worried that she was going to go nuts on him and Patrick again. But she didn't. When Darrel got in trouble for stuffing the girls' toilet at school with paper towels (stupid Syd Brown and his dare), Mama didn't even punish him, saying he was getting too big for a whipping. Unfortunately, Daddy held no such reservations.

She didn't yell or give Dale death glares when he told the boys dirty stories either. She kept to herself and read her Bible in silence.

# # #

It was for that reason Darrel didn't think anything was amidst the third Sunday in September, six months after Mama's outburst.

Patrick had nursed a nasty cold all week, but by Sunday it was nothing but a few sniffles."You best stay home, Patrick, don't wanna be gettin' the whole congregation sick," Mama said.

Darrel was shocked. Mama had never let either boy missed a day of church unless they were vomiting or at death's door.

Patrick smiled, stuck out his tongue at Darrel when Mama wasn't looking, and slid underneath the covers.

# # #

Darrel shuffled along to church, wondering how Patrick managed to pull off the near impossible-a Sabbath free of Brother Elijah.

Once they got to church, Darrel noticed that there were a lot more people milling around the front yard than usual. Of course, today was "Confession Day."

"Confession Day" was one of Brother Elijah's more innovative practices. Every year, the members of Friends of Yahweh were invited to "freely confess your sins, so that you may be cleansed in righteousness."

Darrel quickly learned that no one confessed to anything good on "Confession Day."

"Ain't a murderer or bank robber in the bunch," Darrel sulked to his brother after his first "Confession Day."

Paddy just smiled and shook his head. "You're crazy, brother, you know that?"

Instead, people took advantage of "Confession Day" to make themselves appear good in front of their neighbors. Last year, Sister Hazel wept up a storm apologizing for only making 8 of her award-winning blueberry pies for the bake sale, instead of the promised 12, because her mother-in-law died that very weekend.

"I let y'all down! I spent 20 hours straight baking them pies, but I know they weren't the best. Oh, please forgive me! I was busy baking them pies and then saw my dear mother-in-law off to her eternal home, but I know I let Brother Elijah and everyone down!"

Darrel giggled, "what's next, she gonna apologize to the blueberries?"

Patrick just shrugged his shoulders, "I thought her pies was just dandy."

After the confession, Brother Elijah decided on an appropriate punishment, cleaning the church or some sort of manual labor that he didn't want to do himself. The pretty girls and women got assigned to be Brother Elijah's personal secretary for a few days, while the ugly ones were assigned cleaning jobs, Darrel remember glumly.

It was a nice little deal. The congregation got to brag about themselves in the guise of apologizing for their sins, while Brother Elijah gained free labor. Brother Elijah always passed the collection plate 3 times, instead of the normal 2, on "Confession Day."

# # #

"Hey Curtis," Darrel looked up and saw Syd Brown, Grey Douglass and David McDonald standing near the corner of the church.

Darrel grinned and waved, "Hey guys!" These were his school buddies, but what were they doing at Friends of Yahweh?

After some back slaps and handshakes, Darrel found out that they were at Friends of Yahweh for, in David's words, "the big show."

Darrel laughed, but it made him feel a bit uncomfortable that his friends came down to the church to gawk and make fun of the congregants.

"Hello, Darrel." Darrel looked up, it was Ethel Bowman, the prettiest girl in the eighth grade. Darrel had a bit of a crush on Ethel, and though he didn't know too much about girls, he thought maybe she liked him too.

"What are you doing here?" she asked in her honeysuckle voice.

Darrel stammered. "My mama attends the church, and I escort her. She's getting kinda old now, almost 40," Darry leaned in and whispered.

Just then Rachel Curtis walked briskly past the group while effortlessly carrying a large stack of Bibles.

Syd smirked at Darrel. Darrel headed to help Mama, but Grey beat him to it.

"Ain't you a dear," Mama said to Grey, as he took the pile of Bibles in his hands.

"Your brother here?" Ethel asked Darrel.

"Nah, he's sick, not real bad. Just a cold."

"Oh, send him my regards." She looked down at her feet. Her hair was blonde and curly.

Darrel nodded. It was a bit funny. Darrel loved Patrick more than anyone in the world and Patrick was his best friend, but Patrick just didn't do well with other people. With Darrel, he was funny and could talk up a storm, but with others he sometimes came across as a bit cold and reserved. Darrel wanted to help Paddy make friends this year, but with him dropping out it was kind of a moot point.

"Well, you best be escortin' your mama to the front, don't want her to trip, her being 40 and all." Syd said with sneer.

Ha Ha.

Darrel took his seat next to Mama. He figured since he was here, he might as well, as David said, "enjoy the show." Besides, anything was better than hearing Brother Elijah belch the spoiled leftovers he called a 'sermon.' A huge happy-go-lucky grin spread across Darrel's face, let the show begin, indeed!

# # #

Mama stood up and joined the line of confessors. Darrel felt his grin shrink. Mama never spoke at "Confession Day" and when Darrel was little he foolishly thought it was because his Mama was perfect.

"Brothers and sisters," Mama's tiny voice shook, and someone in the back shouted, "we can't hear you, Sister Rachel!"

Mama stood on her tippy toes, as if that would make her voice stronger, "brothers and sisters, I have a confession to make."

Darrel felt his body turn to jelly. Even though he was mad at Mama for punching Patrick, he didn't want to see her berate herself in front of Brother Elijah, their neighbors and his friends. And Ethel. Oh, man. Darrel felt like his heart was going to leap out of his chest.

Mama continued. "I come here because Darrel committed a bad, bad sin against Yahweh and our Brother Elijah."

Darrel looked around, and saw blank expressions on almost everyone's faces.

"That's my youngest son," Mama helpfully added.

Mummers of disapproval echoed through the church.

"What did he do, Sister Rachel?" Brother Billy called from his seat in the back, and Darrel felt like flattening Brother Billy into a flapjack.

Mama started to sway, as if the weight of Darrel's sins was too great for her tiny frame.

"He, he said real, evil things about Brother Elijah and blasphemed Yahweh. Then when I was cleanin' his room, what do I see brothers and sisters? But pornography! Dirty, filthy, sinful pictures of painted Jezebels!"

Syd let out a low whistle.

Darrel wanted to die. His face turned a bright shade of crimson and he wished he could just die right there in the front pew.

"That's a lie!" Darrel stood up and shouted.

But Mama wasn't deterred. "So," she said, like a female William Jennings Bryan, "you deny havin' em smut pictures of Mae West in ya' room?"

Darrel looked around, tears started to form in his eyes. He looked over at Ethel, she squirmed uncomfortably and looked like she just swallowed a tablespoon of cod liver oil.

"No, but they wasn't smut pictures, just regular pictures," Darrel spoke in a barely audible whisper. Darrel could not believe he was having this conversation with his mother in this place. His legs started to shake and he suddenly had to go to the bathroom real bad.

"Ahoo! But what did Brother Elijah say about Mae West, huh boy?" Mama had the congregation in the palm of her hands.

Brother Elijah stood off to the side, smacking his lips together. Darrel said nothing.

"Come on, son, what did Brother Elijah say about Mae West?"

Darrel still said nothing, but he didn't need to, the entire congregation, minus the non-members, shouted in unison "she's a harlot."

Mama gave Darrel a smug look, and Darrel felt as small and as useless as the ant crawling over his shoe lace.

But Mama wasn't done.

"Brothers and sisters, a few nights ago, I hear Darrel tryin' to corrupt my other son Patrick. He say that maybe Yahweh don't even exist! Please, please, Brother Elijah, cleanse Darrel of his sin so he may walk in righteousness in the name of Yahweh! Repent, Darrel, Repent!" Mama took to her knees, yelling out for salvation.

Brother Elijah and two of the heftier elders grabbed Darrel by the arms and took him to the front of the congregation.

"Brother Darrel, you have sinned in front of Yahweh and your mama, would you like to confess?" Brother Elijah looked at Darrel expectantly.

Rachel's lion starred at the den filled with angry Daniels. He saw his Sunday school classmates, Sister Hazel, Brother Billy, his friends, his mother, still on her knees in prayers, Brother Elijah in his stupid crisp white shirt with his white tie and white suspenders.

Lordy, how Darrel wished he had one of Sister Hazel's award-winning blueberry pies in his hands right now…

"Come on, Brother Darrel, confess your sins so that I may cleanse you in the river of righteousness." Brother Elijah looked at him with impatience.

A roar of anger welled up inside of Darrel.

"No! I ain't confessing nothing, because I did nothing wrong. You want to hear about wrong, you oughta hear what Mama did to Patrick a few months ago. You wanna hear about corruption, you oughta hear about what Brother Elijah did to them girls in Windrixville."

It was a speech far braver than its speaker felt.

The Friends of Yahweh members looked at Darrel with disgust.

Mama turned Holy Ghost pale.

"Lies!" Mama screamed at the top of her lungs. "Maybe it's you who dream of touchin' them girls, that's why you lie about Brother Elijah!"

Was this happening? Was this really happing? Darrel looked at the tiny woman in her old cotton dress with mended pockets and her worn wool tights. The woman was his mother, yet she was someone and something else entirely in that moment. I don't even know who you are anymore, Darrel thought to himself.

Grey motion for Syd, David and Ethel to leave. His friends walked quietly towards the door, and for the first time that day, Darrel truly felt the presence of a higher power. Ethel gave him a sad smile and followed the boys out the door.

Brother Elijah didn't look mad or embarrassed, he just said "I always believe in the right way to train up a boy is to treat em with Yahweh's book. I know Brother Darrel is aware of what He say, 'Ye shall not steal; neither shall ye deal falsely, nor lie one to another.' And Brother Darrel, he lie about me, worse of all he lie about Yahweh. Yet, I still love him. I still love Brother Darrel."

Brother Elijah started to cry. Tears were pouring down his checks and onto his collar, his face scrunched up and bright red, his voice loudly wailing out in agony.

If it had been anyone else, Darrel might have felt bad, but for Brother Elijah, he felt nothing.

"Oh, Brother Darrel, I want to save you! Let me save you Brother Darrel! I love you Brother Darrel!"

Brother Elijah said this to Darrel, but the only audience he was looking at was the congregation that sat before him, eating up his speech like one of Sister Hazel's blueberry pies.

Brother Elijah grabbed his handkerchief out of his pocket and gave an elephant roar of a nose blow.

It startled Darrel so much that he shook and shivered like Buttercup when she had a cold.

"Ya, see brothers and sisters, Brother Darrel has the Devil in him! The Devil is dancin' inside of him, trying to do his little jitterbug!"

Brother Elijah breathed deeply into Darrel, "Get out Satan! I beseech you to get out!"

Darrel pinched his nose and stepped back. "P.U! Stick away from the onions Brother Elijah!" Now that his friends were miraculously gone, he wasn't worried about being embarrassed. Let Brother Elijah and Mama throw their rancid meat at him, he had no fear. Brother Elijah wanted a show; Darrel was going to give him a show.

Mama gasped.

A tight smile formed on Brother Elijah's mouth. He pushed Darrel to the ground, and placed one foot on his chest. Darrel squirmed underneath his patent leather shoe. He continued talking, "And the only thing we can do for those with the Devil in em is to take the rod of Yahweh in our hands."

Brother Elijah took off his belt, and in front of the congregation, the elders and Darrel's mother, beat the devil out of Darrel Curtis.

And even though it was Darrel who took the beating, it was Brother Elijah who cried out to the heavens, "forgive 'em Pa, for he know not what he do!"

Darrel didn't cry or shout, or laugh, or grin or even grimace. But he looked at his mother; she lifted her hands in the air and gave thanks to Yahweh and Brother Elijah. She didn't look at her son once.

# # #

"So much sin, so much sin," Brother Elijah said to Darrel. He was right, but that Sunday morning, the sin belonged to him and Rachel Curtis alone.

# # #

If you were in that church that morning you would have heard the crack of the belt, you would have heard Sister Rachel praising Yahweh, but loudest of all, you would have heard the invisible rope that once bonded mother and son together being ripped apart.

# # #

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns, thanks to HappierThanMost, grayturtle and TheViewFromTheAfternoon for reviewing so far. All are awesome authors (nice alliteration, huh?) and you should check out their work, ASAP.**

 **I know I'm putting poor Darrel through the ringer, especially with the last two chapters. BUT, I do have an endgame in sight, and ultimately this story IS about acceptance, love, forgiveness and family bonds. Its just that I need to give them something to forgive in the first place!**

 **P.P.S. Thanks for reading! I know this was a long chapter. The good news is that the next few chapters should be more concise.**

 **Yes, Sister Hazel. Ha. Ha.**

 **Oh a little note: In chapter 4 (the previous chapter entitled "Both Horse and Driver") Brother Elijah gives a sermon based on his interpretation of Exodus 15.1. It is sort of the key of Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6 and the story overall (if I do it right).**


	6. The Quality of Mercy

**Some period appropriate terminology and thoughts regarding sexuality. These are not my own thoughts/terms but they ring true for these characters in this setting at this time.**

" _The quality of mercy is not strained…It blesseth him that gives and him that takes." Portia in "The Merchant of Venice" Act 4, Scene 1 by William Shakespeare._

Darrel's backside hurt like hell, and he winced as he and Mama made their way home. That wasn't the worst pain though; the worst pain was the humiliation and anger that boiled inside of him. He still couldn't believe that Mama had stood up in front of all those people, in front of _Ethel,_ and told them that Darrel worships Satan.

He glared at Mama. If she was worried or upset, she didn't show it. Instead her head was raised high and she had an extra pep in her step. He struggled to keep up with her.

When they got home, Darrel ran up to his room and slammed the door. Patrick was asleep. Darrel pounded his hand into his mattress and wept.

"No radio playin'" Mama whispered loudly from downstairs, "you know the Sabbath rules."

Mama had a list of rules for the Sabbath: no movies, no radio, no baseball or football games, no traveling by car-unless it was an emergency, no loud noises and of course, no swearing. Mama had more rules and regulations for herself. She converted the old shed into a room she stayed in when she was on her monthly. Mama explained that she was unclean during that time of the month and needed to be separated from her family.

Darrel thought Mama just wanted a week of peace and quiet away from them all.

Mama called them for dinner at 4:00. Patrick saw Darrel's red-shot eyes and gave his brother a quizzical look. "I'll tell ya later," Darrel said.

Mama had made a Sunday supper of chicken, okra, sweet potatoes, homemade biscuits and apple sauce with cherries. She was beaming from ear to ear.

Darrel grabbed for a biscuit, but Mama slapped his hand away, "not before grace," but Darrel thought he saw the slightest twitch of a grin form on her mouth.

"Darrel, you wanna say grace?" Mama smiled at Darrel.

Darrel looked up at his mother. Usually, Daddy was the one who said grace and in Daddy's absence Mama said grace.

He legs ached when he stood up, he winced, but Patrick and Mama's eyes were both bowed down in prayer and they didn't notice. He looked at Mama, she had a look of, if not peace, then calm, eased over her face.

Darrel got an idea.

Clearing his throat, Darrel Curtis began his best Brother Elijah impression.

"Ahhh, Brothers and Sisters! Oh, Thank Ye, Yahweh for this meal we are about to eat." Darrel stomped his foot down like Brother Elijah did. He added a few throat noises and BAH-HUMPF sounds, just like Brother Elijah. Mama nodded, but Patrick was doing his best not to snicker.

"As you know, Yahweh our Brother Elijah has some real problems with them girls. He like…"

"Shhh!" Mama hissed, but this only encouraged Darrel.

"He like em girls and em married ladies. Why, we saw how he looks at Sister Eunice today. We knows he gonna know her Bibli…"

"SHUT UP!" Mama stood up and screamed, violating her 5th and 6th Sabbath rules.

"Darrel," Patrick glared at him, his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed.

But Darrel was on a roll. He wanted to hurt her, wanted to humiliate her, like she humiliated him. Darrel Curtis never backed down from a fight in his life, he wasn't about to lay down his arms now.

"Oh, Brother Elijah," he squealed in a high pitch woman's voice, "we loves you so much! We wanna see if your Bible is as big as your peck…"

Mama screamed. Patrick shot up.

"Darrel, you say one more thing, I'm gonna flatten you." Patrick's fist bunched up and his knuckles aimed directly at the side of Darrel's big head.

Darrel felt his body and soul breaking. He didn't know what had happened to him. He looked at Mama she was red and shaking with anger. He looked at Paddy, he looked angry, but more than that he looked hurt and confused. Darrel felt so much worse for putting that look on his brother than anything he said to Mama that night.

And so in that moment, Darrel did something he had not done with true sincerity in years. He folded his hands together and prayed to a God he could not fully believe in.

"Please Yahweh" he pleaded, "just let us be a normal family again. We just wanna be a family like we was before Brother Elijah came into our lives. I just want us to be normal. Please."

The anger on Paddy's face melted into a look of sympathy; Darrel thought he looked like he was close to tears. His pleas did nothing for Mama's countenance.

"You don't know a THING. You don't know what you're talkin' about! Don't be tryin' to pull this prayin' act on me." Mama shouted in Darrel's face.

Darrel continued with his prayer, "We love Mama, we really do. I'm sorry for speakin' dirty on your Holy day. I'm sorry for doin' whatever I done to make Mama so angry…"

Darrel's voice broke, he turned to his mother.

"You is always tellin' us to read The Book. But The Book tells us to forgive…"

"Don't be tellin' me a thing about forgiveness." Mama whispered in a low, understated tone.

Her low volume and even expression masked an inside quaking with rage.

She looked like she wanted to clobber him. Patrick pulled her back. She struggled, kicking Patrick, "get off of me! Leave me be, boy!"

"Darrel," Patrick shouted over Mama's shouts, "I think you best go to your room."

Darrel shook his head, "uh-uh. I ain't leavin' you alone with her."

He shot Mama with his eyes. She was nuts, crazy, insane, mean as a bull.

She shot him right back, his Colt .45 no match for her machine gun eyes.

Mama broke away from Patrick's grip, got a real wild look in her eyes and ran upstairs to her bedroom.

The boys finished their dinner in silence. Mama always did a real fine job of cooking.

* * *

So, this is what it felt like to drown, Rachel Curtis thought. She wondered about that, what did actually feel like to drown?

 _But they that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition.-1 Timothy 6:9_

What did if feel like in that split second when you realize you're about to go under? Do you pound on the surface of the water, desperate to stay afloat? Or, do you just let yourself go under, praying that death would be mercifully quick and painless?

 _But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.-Matthew 18:6_

She leafed through the Bible she stored in her head, trying to find a verse that would give her comfort. Rachel never did too well in school, but it wasn't because of a lack of intelligence. She had a keen mind and when she cared about something and applied herself she shined with an intelligence that rose far above her roughhewed language and meager education.

She had memorized huge chunks of the Bible. The only person who could claim greater authority and knowledge of Yahweh's Holy Book was Brother Elijah. Rachel would never compare herself to Brother Elijah of course, but she did enjoy the other sisters asking her to validate their Biblical quotes and arguments.

She started her bath.

As she stretched out in the tub, her left breast began to ache. She remembered trying to get him latch on, singing to him, pleading with him, yelling at him, and sometimes even shaking him. Nothing seemed to work. Nothing worked until that day they heard that darn advertisement for some Cowboy picture.

Her youngest boy took to horses like a fish took to water. Cowboy movies, horses, rodeos, it didn't matter, if it had to do with horses, his eyes would fill with wonder and excitement.

 _And thou shalt take the breast of the ram of Aaron's consecration, and wave it for a wave offering before the Lord: and it shall be thy part._ Exodus 29:26

Once she got him to latch on, he never let go. He gnawed and gnashed on her breast, suckling her milk ducts dry.

Yet, despite all of the pain he caused her, she couldn't let go of him either.

He was flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood.

 _Twelve years they served Chedorlaomer, and in the thirteenth year they rebelled._ Genesis 14:4

For the first twelve seasons of his life Yahweh's purpose echoed through their house. Then he rebelled. He spoke out against Brother Elijah, he spoke out against Yahweh, questioning His existence.

She hovered over her sons, listening to their conversations. He saw her other son look at him attentively as he questioned everything he'd been taught. He was going to take her entire family down with him.

Yet, he still cleaved unto her heart.

 _Have mercy upon me, O Lord; for I am weak: O Lord, heal me; for my bones are vexed._ Psalm 6:2

She prayed without ceasing over what to do. Today was her last chance to save him. Her prayers did nothing to change his wayward trot, but maybe the power Yahweh vested in Brother Elijah would save him. Maybe, hearing his sins read out loud in such a holy place would convince him confess.

 _And Joshua said unto the people, Ye cannot serve the Lord: for he is an holy God; he is a jealous God; he will not forgive your transgressions nor your sins._ Joshua 24:19

What he didn't realize, what no one realized, was that her actions today was a gift of mercy to him.

 _Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever._ Psalm 23:6

Despite her intimate knowledge of the wickedness that emitted from man's tongue, she was willing to welcome him back unto her bosom.

All he had to do was confess and his slate would be wiped clean.

He didn't confess though. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Thus, with every lick from Brother Elijah's belt, Rachel Curtis felt her heart grow lighter. Her boy would be saved.

 _For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found._ Luke 15:24

Rachel Curtis knew what people said about Brother Elijah, how they made fun of him.

 _With hypocritical mockers in feasts, they gnashed upon me with their teeth._ Psalm 35:16

Yet when she saw the man her heart swelled with thanksgiving. He once gave her a gift far more precious and valuable than anything she could repay him with. All she wanted to do was to share this gift with her sons.

And yet her son took her love and burned it as a sacrifice unto evil.

 _Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter!_ Isaiah 5:20

She knew what she had to do. She had to cast him out of her heart. He may drown, but she wouldn't let him take the rest of her family down with him.

Today was not about anger, obedience or righteousness, it was about love. It was Rachel's lamentation for her lost son.

 _In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not_. Matthew 2:18

Evil already tried to take her before; it would not take her again.

 _Speak not thou in thine heart, after that the Lord thy God hath cast them out from before thee, saying, For my righteousness the Lord hath brought me in to possess this land: but for the wickedness of these nations the Lord doth drive them out from before thee._ Deuteronomy 9:4

She slipped underneath the surface of the lukewarm water.

 _But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life._ John 4:14

* * *

Darrel sat cross legged on the edge of his bed. After a silent supper, Darrel told Paddy everything that happened at church that day. Paddy didn't say anything, like Daddy did so many times before; he just got up and left the house. When his father left the house in silence you could be assured that he would usually come back with a bruised hand or bruised ego. But Patrick was too good to get into fights, besides he wasn't much of a fighter. Nope, Paddy was probably outside helping little old ladies cross Main Street or carrying groceries for expectant mothers.

Darrel sighed. He wished he had an ounce of his brother's innate goodness.

"Hey, Pony Boy."

Darrel looked up, his brother hadn't called him by his nickname in years. Patrick plopped down next to his brother and put an arm around Darrel's shoulders. Darrel was 5 inches taller, and Patrick had to lift his arm up at an angle to reach Darrel's shoulders. He squeezed hard.

"Listen, I'm real sorry about what Mama and Brother Elijah did, they had no right..."

"Damn right," Darrel interrupted, relishing the swear word on his Sabbath Day tongue.

Patrick winced, "I'm sorry they did you like that, but maybe you can try a little harder with Mama."

"What?!" "I ain't the one callin' her Satan. I ain't the one being nice one moment and ranting and raving the next."

"No. But when she gets in her moods, you ain't gotta be tryin' to get her all riled up either. Like tonight at supper. Listen, Darrel, Mama's been hurt."

"Daddy ain't never lifted a finger to her!" Darrel pulled away from his brother's grip, his fists curled up into a punch.

"No. I don't know, but I think that Mama's been real badly hurt. I don't know for sure, and I don't know who, but there's gotta be a reason she acts like that."

"Cause she's a loon, that's why."

Patrick looked irritated. "Listen," he said harshly,"all I'm sayin' is that when Mama acts the way she do, maybe don't pick at her scabs. Just let her be."

Darrel scoffed at his brother, and Patrick walked to his own bed and turned off the light.

"All want is for her to stop hating me. I don't even know what I did to her. How can I even make it right?"

Patrick fiddled with his fingers and looked up at the ceiling, "I don't know." He knew what his brother was really asking him, _how can I not hate her like she hates me?_ He felt like his entire family was being swallowed up by angry flood.

* * *

 _Three days passed since that Sabbath. After school Darrel spent all of his free time at the stables. Mr. Stead could tell something was bothering Darrel, but he was never one to butt into another man's life. Instead, he offered Darrel the rare honor of taking Buttercup off the grounds._

" _I don't know many boys who have taken to a horse like you, why don't you ride her for a few hours? Just have her back in her stable by midnight."_

 _Darrel beamed from ear to ear. Mr. Stead was right, bareback, saddled, it didn't matter, Darrel could ride 'em all._

 _Darrel fitted the saddle and a small satchel of carrots and sugar cubes and set on his way. It was late September and there was a light breeze in the air. Darrel always preferred the wide open spaces and prairie lands, but there was something to be said for the hill covered woodlands and creeks around Muskogee. If you had a secret or needed sometime to yourself the land offered plenty of hiding places. In the distance he could see the peaks of the Boston Mountains, a saddle of red, gold, brown, orange and green trees lying upon its proud back._

 _Buttercup seemed to be in good spirits, licking moss off the sides of rocks, brushing her tail through the ferns._

 _Soon enough, Darrel saw him. There, lollygagging near the river, Brother Elijah. He stretched out on a picnic blanket; he looked no different than he did every Sunday, except he was barefoot. There was a girl lying next to him._

 _Ethel._

 _Shit._

 _Anger and rage, he felt nothing else._

 _Buttercup could feel his rage and she snorted a few times, her eyes narrowed at the middle aged man and teenage girl._

" _What the hell are you doing?!" Darrel wasn't quite sure if was yelling at Brother Elijah or at Ethel. Nothing made sense anymore. He felt dizzy. Is this what it felt like to drown?_

 _Ethel was fully dressed and even her shoes and socks were still on. Darrel felt some gratitude for that small miracle._

 _She stood up and crossed her arms, "who the heck are YOU Darrel Curtis to tell ME what to do?"_

 _He snorted, "hey darlin' you do whatever you like, I just never figures you for a whore."_

 _Darrel had never used that word before to girl and it felt bitter on his tongue._

 _She gasped. "You are bananas, you know that? Just like your Mama."_

" _Hey! Leave my Mama out of this. At least she ain't all billing and cooing with a wrinkled old man."_

 _She began to take her dress off. She then took off her slip, her girdle and her bra. She was naked except for her underwear, socks and shoes, which somehow, still stayed on._

 _Darrel only recently discovered breasts. Her breasts with tiny and round, like Mrs. Stead's cupcakes. Vanilla cupcakes with peach-lemon frosting and a brown raisin on top._

 _She looked at him, "you want this, don't you? You want all of this?" She pointed to her breasts. He felt himself get hard._

 _He nodded. He didn't know why he wanted it, or even what exactly he wanted, but he wanted._

" _Well, you can't have this," her voice a honeysuckled sneer._

 _She turned away from Darrel and towards Brother Elijah who was sitting up, but not moving a muscle, "y'all is gonna have to fight for me."_

 _Darrel felt his stomach turn to ice. "I need to get her back to the stables soon, Mr. Stead is gonna have a fit."_

 _Ethel laughed, "guess you don't really want this," she touched her breasts again._

" _No, no, I do!"_

" _Okay, then prove it. She walked away from both of them, her dress still lying on the ground. Darrel felt all tingly inside as he looked at her butt jiggle in her panties._

 _Lordy, what sorta trouble have I gotten myself into?! But he had no choice, he had to fight._

 _Darrel and Buttercup started to move in closer on Brother Elijah. He looked frightened, and kept on backing away. His shoes and socks still sat on the picnic blanket, but in his hand he held onto Ethel's dress. Darrel and Buttercup were right on top of him, and soon Brother Elijah walked farther and farther into the river, until only his nose, eyes and forehead were visible. Buttercup gave Brother Elijah a strong kick and sent him to the bottom of the river. He was still holding onto that dress._

 _I killed him, Darrel thought to himself. I killed a man._

 _He did not feel bad either. He felt relieved. That feeling scared him._

 _Darrel smiled and gave Buttercup an extra lump of sugar. Buttercup nuzzled him. She was a real good horse._

 _He had to run away. He had no choice, if they caught him they'd send him away to prison for life. Heck, they might even execute him. He felt bad about leaving his family and friends, especially Patrick, but he had no choice. Maybe Ethel would join him? She should. After all, he did kill a man for her. The least she could do was join him on the lam._

 _It would be nice to have the company._

 _Darrel was still thinking about Ethel when he looked down the river and saw Mama holding onto an old chariot that had tipped over. He wondered how long she'd been there, and where she got the chariot from. She was slowly going under._

 _"Give me your hand!" Darrel shouted._

 _But she turned away from him, "I rather die than set eyes on you again!" Her voice is full of venom and her words burned into Darrel's heart._

 _Buttercup glided over the water to Mama and lifted up her right hoof, smashing Mama's head in and sending her to bottom of the river with Brother Elijah. The river turned red with blood._

Darrel woke up in a sudden, cold sweat.

What was happening to him? He was becoming the sort of person he hated.

He shivered.

He didn't want to be this person. He blinked his eyes and tried to get back to sleep.

* * *

"Wake up!" Dale Curtis hissed at his youngest boy and pulled him out of bed.

Oh, no, Darrel thought, Mama's told him about what happened on Sabbath and Daddy's gonna whip me good.

"Get in my truck," Daddy ordered.

Darrel sat in the front seat of his father's Ford pickup, nervously tapping on the windows.

"Stop that!" Daddy yelled.

"Sorry. Where we going, Daddy?"

Daddy didn't say anything as he revved up the engine. Suddenly, Daddy pulled off the road and grabbed a long white shirt from the back, "here, put this on over your night shirt."

"Why?"

"Do you ever shut up boy? Just put it on and stopped yapping."

It soon became clear that they were headed towards Friends of Yahweh. It took them 10 minutes to get there, and Darrel was amazed at how close the church actually was to their house when you traveled by vehicle.

Daddy and Darrel walked out of the truck, Daddy's purposeful steps followed by Darrel's sleepy, hesitant walk.

Brother Elijah, clad in stripped night shirt, robe and black slippers opened the door with a yawn. Darrel was surprised how normal he looked. He half expected him to sleep in coat of many colors like the one Joseph wore.

"Why, Brother Darrel, Brother Gale, what can I do for you at this hour?" Brother Elijah asked sleepily.

"Dale!" Daddy barked, and before Brother Elijah had a chance to respond, he punched Brother Elijah right in the nose.

Blood gushed like a struck oil well. Brother Elijah fell backwards.

Darrel's hand flew to cover his mouth, he did not expect that. While Darrel was crowing silently over Brother Elijah's change of fortune, Daddy placed his foot on Brother Elijah's chest, just like Brother Elijah did to Darrel, and moved his fist back to punch him again.

Brother Elijah looked bored, and for a second Darrel worried that Daddy's punch missed its mark and dinged his brain.

Darrel rushed up and pulled his Daddy's hand back, "no Daddy. Don't. Please, let him be."

Darrel had no idea what came over him. He got into fights, caused and received plenty of school yard punches and he hated Brother Elijah with all his heart, but this wasn't fair. A man Daddy's size punching a downed man the size of Brother Elijah wasn't right at all.

Daddy looked at his son looked at his shaking fist and looked at the impassive yet bloody figure lying on the ground. He started to breathe heavily and extending his hand to Brother Elijah, he pulled the man up.

Still gripping Brother Elijah's hand, Daddy got right into Brother Elijah's face and hissed, "listen EEE-LIE-JAH, you is damn lucky my boy is such a good boy, cause I ain't got no problem beating the SHIT out of you right now."

Darrel's mouth dropped open for the second time that night, he never heard his father call him a 'good boy' before.

Brother Elijah nodded, but Darrel noticed that he didn't look scared at all. Although he would loathe to admit it, Darrel was impressed by Brother Elijah's cool detachment.

"If I ever hear about you so much as lookin' at my boys the wrong way, I'm gonna kill ya so quickly and quietly, ain't nobody even gonna know you're missin'." Daddy let go of Brother Elijah's hand, he grabbed the handkerchief out of his overall pocket and tossed it towards Brother Elijah.

"Next time, there ain't gonna be no need for a handkerchief."

Daddy motioned for Darrel, who was watching this entire scene go down with shock and awe.

"I'll be prayin' real hard for you two," Brother Elijah called out.

Outside, Dale Curtis put his arms around his son, "I got you, don't ever forget that, I always got your back."

Daddy wasn't a hugging man, but that night, with another man's blood on his hand, he pulled his son close to his side.

With Daddy's temper working for, instead of against him, nothing could scare Darrel. He felt invincible.

As they got back in the truck Darrel turned to his father, "how'd you think of having the extra clothes?"

"I've had some experience," Daddy said evenly, then burst out laughing after Darrel looked at him dumbstruck.

"You need to be more on your mark, boy." Daddy laughed and tousled Darrel's hair.

Darrel chuckled, his Daddy certainly had a wild sense of humor.

"We gonna tell Mama what happened?"

Daddy just looked at him and burst out laughing, "You is a good boy, but you just ain't that bright sometimes."

Darrel's face turned red with embarrassment, but Daddy looked at him and grinned, "You know I loves you, right?"

Darrel felt his heart swell, his Daddy use to be real affectionate with his boys, but once they got past age five he stopped with the hugs, kisses and terms of endearment. Now an occasional slap on the back or rough tousling of hair was how he expressed his affection.

Darrel was so startled he didn't know what to say. Finally, just before the turned the corner to the street, Darrel turned to his father, "I love you too, Daddy."

"Huh?" Dale Curtis looked over at his son, he hadn't heard him.

* * *

The next night Daddy told the boys they didn't have to attend Friends of Yahweh anymore if they didn't want to.

"You're both gettin' older, becoming young men. It ain't right to make a man do something he don't feel comfortable doing."

Darrel gave Patrick a big grin, but Patrick just looked down at his feet.

"I'm sorry boys that I made you go to that damn place for all of these years. I shoulda let you both stop attending that heebie jeebie place years ago. I was tryin' to do right by your Mama, but I did you both real wrong."

Darrel felt his heart burst. He wanted to start jumping up and down with joy. First Daddy punched Brother Elijah for him, and then Daddy said they could quit that awful church.

Darrel beamed at his father. Maybe everything would be okay.

That night, still radiating with excitement over his new Brother Elijah-less Sundays, Darrel asked Patrick that had been on the back of his mind for a month.

"How come you dropped out of school, Paddy boy?" Darrel didn't mind that his brother dropped out, but he was curious as to why. Thanks to a short attention span and a long tongue, Darrel didn't earn any grade higher than a "C." But Patrick was real bright. He skipped a grade and was always reading books. Darrel didn't read anything but comics and the funny papers. It just didn't make sense that Patrick would drop out.

"We needed the money," Patrick mumbled and turned his head away from Darrel.

Darrel knew Patrick was lying. Their dad made real good money now with his job, and if Patrick was so worried about money he could just as easily taken a part-time job or a weekend job. Besides, Patrick put most of his money in the bank and gave only a little bit to help with family expenses.

Darrel had a hard time getting to sleep. It was the first time since they were little kids that Patrick lied outright to him.

 _What are you hiding from me, Patrick?_

* * *

Patrick Curtis had a difficult time getting to sleep that night. His younger brother was so excited about skipping church he tossed and turned all night. Patrick glanced around their bedroom. As Mama became more and more devout over the years, the boys found themselves living under more and more of her legalistic restrictions. To counter, the boys both kept 'contraband' up in their room. Darrel's contraband included baseball cards, pictures of movie starlets and comic books. Patrick's contraband included books: H.G Wells, Oscar Wilde, David Thoreau, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost. Some of the books were even banned from the library because they were considered dirty.

Darrel merely kept in contraband in a shoebox underneath his bed, no wonder Mama had found his Mae West pictures! But Patrick created a secret safe for all of his contraband. It annoyed Patrick when Darrel asked him why he dropped out of school. It was really none of his business. Besides, he figured Darrel would be happy he didn't have to bloody any more noses on Patrick's account anymore. He knew Darrel thought he was a wimp, even if he was too loyal to say so. But, that wasn't true. The reason why Patrick didn't fight was because he knew that once he started, he would never stop.

Like he did most nights he couldn't sleep, Patrick thought about books. He wasn't a big fan of Shakespeare, but he did enjoy "The Merchant of Venice" and "Othello." Despite Shylock being a Jew and Othello a Negro, he identified with those two characters. Like him, they were both outsiders.

He looked over at his sleeping brother. How he envied him. How he envied Darrel for not being consumed with this sickness. This evil. He prayed that Yahweh would cure him. He did not pray for mercy, because he knew he did not deserve it.

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns/inspired. The Bible quotes are from the King James version, Rachel Curtis believes that any other version is a modernist interpretation and therefore, blasphemous. I don't own Shakespeare or his works. Ditto for any other author mentioned.**

 **Darrel's love of comic books is a homage AndThatWasEnough's "You're a Good Man, Darrel Curtis." It's incredible. Check it out.**

 **P.S. I know in my last A/N I promised that this chapter would be far more concise. I lied. May your quality of mercy not be strained.**


	7. Extra:School Essays

**A/N, Okay, as I try to get back into the actual story, this idea popped into my head. It is either going to come across as being novel and endearing or gimmicky and annoying. So, for that, I'm sorry! But I wanted to take a little risk. Below are four essays on family history that Darrel and Patrick Curtis wrote in elementary school. As there was no spellcheck back then, I've decided to make it realistic by writing as I thought Darrel and Patrick might have written their essays, spelling mistakes and all. I've also included the feedback they received from their teachers. Enjoy!**

A History of My Family

Written and Ilustrated by Darrel Curtis

Miss. Hansen 5th Grade 

The year was 1719.

At the time there were a bunch of criminals and prostitutes in France. The French King, who was just a boy, named Louis XV, was sick and tired of all of the criminals stinking up his country, so he shipped them off to New Orleans.

One of these criminals was my ansestor, Pierre Courtois. Ol' Pete Courtois was a pickpocketer, thief and general nusence. Unforchunantly, he was not particularly good at any of these talents accept for annoying respectable society and good people everywhere.

The police arrested Pete and threw him in jail. They said he would have to move to New Orleans or "else." He asked what "else" was. They told him they would cut off his head using something called a gilloteen. Being very attached to his neck (ha ha!) he decided that New Orleans sounded just dandy to him.

Before going to New Orleans, the police told Pete he was going to get married! You see, the King also told a bunch of women criminals that they too would be going to New Orleans, "or else." Before sailing away, the police told the women criminals to pick themselves a husband from a group of male criminals, one of whom was Pete.

Pete was grabbed up by a woman named Marie. Pete and Marie were married and shackeled together so they could not escape. They arrived in New Orleans. At the time, New Orleans was a French city and it was sirounded by hostile Indians, swamps and small time criminals like Pete and Marie. But Pete and his new bride had no choice but to make do.

Pete and Marie had 5 children, including one Theo File Courtois born in 1741 when Pete was 41 and Marie 38. Theo File Courtois married Angeline Abbe. Angeline was born in New Orleans, but her Mama was a Spanish lady from a place called "The Canary Islands" and her Daddy was from France. Angeline's parents did not think Theo File Courtois, being the son of criminals, was good enough for their daughter. But, Theo File Courtois was very handsome, hardworking and smart, so they said, "okay!"

On July 4th, 1776 America was born. That exact same day Theo and Angeline Courtois of New Orleans welcomed the birth of a son, Jacques Christophe Courtois.

Interestingly enough, despite the example set by Pete and Marie, no other Courtois was known to be a criminal, at least, that is, what I've been told. Anyways, when he was in his 20s, Jacques C. Courtois began to have a vision. It was a vision of some woods and lakes. For a reason I don't understand, Jacques left his family in New Orleans and stared to head out to seek his vision.

Unforchunately, Jacques was good at imaging things, but not good at doing things, because soon enough Jacques found himself lost, sick and without any money. He found a stream and he decided to lie down next to the stream and die.

He then saw an angel, she was very tall with red hair and blue eyes. She told him that it was time for him to "move on." Jacques smiled at her and closed his eyes. Again, she told him that it was time to "move." Jacques looked around for the light, and got very scared when all he saw was the dark. "What sort of place am I going to?" Jacques probably asked himself. The angel again told him to "move" and Jacques was getting mighty mad at this angel, because he was trying to move towards the light, but he couldn't see anything.

Soon, he realized that the angel was screaming at him to "move" because there was an Alligator Snapping Turtle ready to bite him! Jacques jumped up and ran like the dickens. He then realized that the angel was not an angel at all, but a woman. He was in love.

Luckily for Jacques this woman was good at everything Jacques was bad at, and took care of him. Luckily for me, the two of them got married. The woman was named Sidonie Devereaux. Sidonie and Jacques lived in a place called LaFourche. While Jacques family came from France, Sidonie's family came from Canada, but they spoke French, so she could talk to Jacques without any problems. Her people were called Acadians.

Oh, yeah, I should say that Sidonie and Jacques were both Catholic. In Louisiana the Catholics there celebrate something called Mardy Graw. In Sidonie's village they celebrated Mardy Graw in a real piculular strange way. Jacques's Mama and Daddy, Angeline and Theo File Courtois, did not like Sidonie. They did not like her because they thought she and her people were swamp people. They were also poor as church mice.

Jacques C. Courtois and Sidonie Courtois didn't care. Jacques loved his swamp bride and they made their living from fishing.

You may be wondering what the Courtois family has to do with the Curtis family of Oklahoma, well, I'm getting to that part. You see, Jacques and Sidonie Courtois had a son named Jacques. Jacques Jr. was the rebel of the family.

Little Jacques moved to Central Louisiana and fell in love with a girl named Anne Walton. By this time Louisiana was an American state and a lot of German, English, Scottish and Irish people lived there too.

Anne was not French and Anne was not Catholic. His parents did not approve of this marriage. Her parents only said yes if Jacques would become a Baptist. Luckily for me, he said yes. Jacques stopped speaking French, which was all well and good, because Anne couldn't speak any language but English. He also diecided to chop letters off his name. That is how Jacques Courtois a Catholic boy became Jack Curtis, a Baptist man.

Jack and Anne Curtis had a son named Sam Curtis in 1822. When little Sam was only 4, Jack and Anne Curtis decided to move to Arkansaw. When he was in his forties, Sam Curtis decided to run off and leave his wife and 9 children all by their lonesome, and fight under Mr. Robert E. Lee. Sam Curtis died from a cannon ball to the stomach. Sam Curtis's wife was named Flora Roberts. One of the children Sam had before being killed by the Union cannon ball was Merrill Curtis.

Merrill Curtis married a lady from Little Rock, Jane O'Brien. Jane O'Brien was originally from Ireland and also a Catholic, just like Merrill Curtis's ancestors. In Ireland, the potatoe crop failed and a lot of people died. Those who didn't die came to America. One of those people was Jane O'Brien. In 1874 Merrill and Jane had a boy they named Patrick Lee Curtis. Merrill and Patrick went to the Baptist church, while Jane Curtis went to the Catholic church.

Merrill Curtis heard that there was cheap land available in the western part of the state. He wanted his family to move again. Jane Curtis, having come to Arkansaw all the way from Ireland said "no siree, bob!" Jane Curtis moved back to Little Rock to live with her brother, Malcolm. Merrill and Patrick Curtis headed west. Merrill Curtis got remarried and had a bunch more children.

Merrill, Patrick and Merrill's new family lived in a place called The Ozarks. The Ozarks are hills in western Arkansas. There, Patrick fell in love with a lady named Elizabeth Shane. Elizabeth Shane's kin were hill people. They did not take too kindly to outsiders. Elizabeth Shane's Daddy was William Jason Shane. WJS was a mean drunk and he beat his wife and kids.

Besides not liking outsiders, the Shane family also didn't like Confederates. When they found out that Patrick Lee Curtis was named after Robert E. Lee and that his Grandpa, Sam Curtis, fought for the South, they refused to let Elizabeth marry Patrick.

Patrick and Elizabeth got married anyways and went on a daring escape through the hills, hiding from Elizabeth's family. Elizabeth had four brothers, Hubert, Hilton, Henry and Herman. The 4Hs were determined to bring Elizabeth home and kill Patrick Curtis.

The 4Hs came across a ramshackle cabin and saw Elizabeth Curtis in the window. They hid in the piney woods surrounding the cabin, ready to make their move. That night, as they was planning ways to kidnap Elizabeth and kill Patrick, they heard fiddle music being played. The 4Hs all loved the fiddle. But they ain't never heard no one play as good as right now.

They went out of the woods to see who was playing that fiddle so good. Do you know what they discovered? That it was Patrick Curtis! They were so impressed with his fiddle playing that they forgave him and decided not to kill him.

It was a good thing, because Patrick and Elizabeth Curtis had 8 children, including my Daddy, Dale Curtis.

In 1898, when little Dale was five, Patrick Curtis decided that he wanted to move again. So, the family packed up and headed west to Oklahoma. The family lived just over the border, in the hilly part of the state that looked a lot of Arkansaw.

The family was very poor and they drank a lot, but they also played a lot of music, danced and had a good time. When he was 13, Dale Curtis dropped out of school and began traveling the rails on his own to make money. He worked as a ranch hand, a farm hand, door to door salesman, and okashunaly as something called a "vagabond." Being a vagabond was illegal and Dale ended up in jail for one year. When he got out, he traveled to Muskogee County and ended up working as a hired farm hand for a widow, Effie McKinley.

There he met Laura McKinley, my Mama. The two of them got married when Laura was 15 and Dale 20. Laura's father didn't object to the marriage because he was long dead. In 1923 my brother Patrick Curtis was born and in 1925 I was born.

In conclushun, I learned a lot about my family.

1). Sometimes people don't want people to get married because they are the wrong religion, poor, Yankees, Confederates or Swamp people; but people get married anyways.

2). Crime does pay, because if Ol' Pete and Marie Courtois weren't criminals they would have never been sent to New Orleans, and I wouldn't be here today!

3). I should learn to play the fiddle in case I run into a bunch of angry hillbillies!

-Teacher's Comments

 _Darrel,_

 _You certainly have an interesting family history! I enjoyed reading your essay, but you need to work on your spelling and grammar. I am giving you a C+ on your essay._

 _For your oral presentation, I am giving you a C-. You have wonderful enthusiasm, but your behavior during the presentation left a lot to be desired. First of all, it was completely inappropriate pretend to chop off Wade McCain's head with a cardboard "guillotine." Second of all, it was completely inappropriate to throw mud around the classroom pretending it was a "swamp." Thirdly, it was very rude of you to call Becky Wood "a swamp girl."_

 _P.S. You will have one week of detention cleaning the blackboards and desks after school._

 _-Miss. Hansen_

My Ant, Imogene Rose McKinley

By Darrel Curtis

Mrs. Fisher 2nd Grade 

After my brother and my Daddy, my favorit person is my Ant, Imogene Rose McKinley. Ant Jeanie, as we call her, is very funny. She was born in 1903. Her Mama was Effie Lou Waite McKinley and her Daddy was Ellison Joseph McKinley. Her Daddy died when Ant Jeanie was just a baby. Ant Jeanie had two older siblings. Chessel Jefferson McKinley was born in 1893. Laura Beulah McKinley was born in 1898. Uncle Chessel died in an akcident when he was 20. Laura married Dale Curtis and became my Mama.

I love Ant Jeanie becuz she is nice and funny and laffs a lot. I wish she was my Mama.

The Trail of Tears: By Patrick D. Curtis

Miss. Hansen 5th Grade 

Imagine, it is bitterly cold outside, you are sick and running out of food. Imagine, the baby is crying, but you can't comfort it. Imagine, your children are dying from hunger, but you can't feed them. This was what my family went through on something called "The Trail of Tears."

Personally, I think it was horrible that people were kicked out of their homes just because they were Cherokee. But, that is what happened. My Great-Grandfather was named Jefferson James Waite. He was born in 1833 to a White man and a Cherokee woman. When little Jefferson was only 5, he and his entire family were forced to move to Indian Territory. On the trail, his mother, Mary Sue Mann Waite died. So too, did his little sister, Betty Sue Waite and his little brother, Richard Washington Waite. Jefferson was very sad and cried.

Only little Jefferson and his father, Jesse Waite, made it to Indian Territory. Even though he was a white man, Jesse lived like an Indian. When they got to Indian territory, Jesse married a half Cherokee woman named Kate Harris. Jesse and Kate had four children. Jefferson liked Kate, but he missed his real mother.

Sometimes, when he missed his mother, he would try to remember what she looked like and what she smelled like. Sometime, if he tried really hard, he could still hear her voice singing to him a Cherokee lullaby. I would feel really bad if something that aweful happened to my Mama, Daddy or brother.

I think it was horrible what happened to Jefferson's family. It was very unfair. It made me very sad and angry.

The End,

By Patrick D. Curtis.

-Teacher's Comments

 _Patrick,_

 _This is a completely inappropriate topic for an essay. I am giving you an 'incomplete' until you resubmit an essay on a more appropriate topic._

 _Miss. Hansen_

My Family: Part II By Patrick D. Curtis

My Mama, Laura Curtis, has both white and Indian relatives. Her mother is Effie Lou Waite McKinley and her father is Ellison Joseph McKinley. Effie Lou Waite's father was Jefferson Waite. Jefferson was part Cherokee. Jefferson was born in Georgia and moved to Oklahoma when he was only five. His family died on the trip, but I gess that is okay!

Jefferson married a real Choctaw princess named Sarah Rivers. Sarah Rivers was originally from Mississippi. Jefferson and Sarah had a girl named Effie Lou Waite. Effie Lou Waite grew up speaking English, Cherokee and Choctaw. Her family settled in the Muskogee area and became farmers.

Effie Lou married Ellison Joseph McKinley in 1885. Ellison McKinley was a cattle dealer from Tulsa. At the time Tulsa was known as Tulsey Town. Ellison McKinley's brother, Irwin McKinley, took part in the land runs of 1893. Ellison did not take part in the land runs because he was too busy having a family with Effie.

My little brother Darrel is obsessed with cowboys. I didn't know where he got it from, until I learned about my grandfather, Ellison Joseph McKinley.

The END!

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns/inspires. The fabulous HappierThanMost gets all of my kudos/credit for inspiring me to create the character of Sidonie Devereaux and for giving Darrel (some distant) Louisiana heritage.**

 **Some historical notes: Courtois, meaning "courteous" is an old French version of Curtis. Between 1719-1722 France did use forced migration to try to populate New Orleans with colonists. Most of these forced colonists were prisoners. On at least one occasion, a group of female prisoners were ordered to choose a mate from an equal number of male prisoners. Once the 'selection' was made, they were shackled together and sent to New Orleans for the purpose of building/populating the new city. After French rule, New Orleans became a Spanish city. A large number of Spanish settlers originally came from The Canary Islands, like Angeline's mother.**

 **Darrel means Theophile** **not Theo File. ;)**

 **Sidonie is Acadian. This is the period of wide spread Acadian migration from modern day Nova Scotia into Maine and Lousiana. The Acadians would become the ancestors of the Cajuns of Louisiana. There were at times tensions between Creoles (in this particularly instance the French/Spanish Creoles of the Courtois family and the Acadians like Sidonie. While Darrel doesn't name Sidonie's village, by name, it is suppose to be Choupic, where (at least as of the mid 1990s) they still practiced a tradition where young people are chased by masked runners with stick who make the kids say their prayers and then proceeds to give them a flogging. I'm not sure if they practiced this back in Sidonie's time.**

 **Central Louisiana is described as a cross cultural zone between the French/Caribbean/Cajun/Spanish/African/Native influenced South and the British/African-American influenced north Louisiana.**

 **If you're a student of history, you'll notice that Darrel's retelling of his family's New Orleans history has no mention of Creole, African or Native influences. This gives a pretty warped/misinformed picture of the city, but I felt that Darrel, at the age of 10, wouldn't necessarily know about those aspects. For actual information on the profound influence African slaves and their descendants had on the city,particularly the music/cultural scene check out: "The World That Made New Orleans" by Ned Sublette.**

 **In the aftermath of the Great Famine in Ireland, a small group of a few hundred Irish Catholic refugees did settle in Little Rock, Arkansas. Much like central Louisiana is a cultural melting pot of various Louisiana influences, so to is central Arkansas were Sam, Merrill and Patrick are from. The western lands of Arkansas are part of the Ozark mountain range, which has similar culture connections to the Appalachia region. Although Arkansas joined the Confederacy, there were strong pockets of Union support in Arkansas, such as in Searcy County.**

 **The Trail of Tears took place between 1838 and 1840, although groups of Cherokee were forced out of their ancestral homelands after that point as well. While exact stats are impossible to come by, approximately 4,000 out of an original group of 16,000 died of cold, hunger and disease.**

 **Mississippi is the heart of the Choctaw lands.**

 **Tulsa was located in what was then known as Indian territory, at the time it had a reputation as being a small/rough frontier town/cattle town.**

 **P.S. Thanks for reading! I really do appreciate it, and now the next chapter will get back to the actual story.**

 **P.P.S. I SO wish I could have included Darrel's "drawings" as part of this story. Darnit!**


	8. The Book of Patrick

**A/N: This chapter touches on homophobia, self-homophobia and use/abuse of religion to justify homophobia in the 1930s. I just want to say that no matter what your sexuality or gender identity is: YOU are worthy of Respect, Love and Happiness EXACTLY as you are. For anyone who has ever had their family, community or religious group bully you because of your sexuality, gender identity or any other factor, I'm so sorry.**

 **Peace to everyone.**

 **Some content: The first story takes place in 1932 (Pat is 9, Darrel is 7), the second and third story takes place in 1938 (Pat 15, Darrel 13) just a few months before the infamous "Confession Day" incident. The final story takes place in 1940-Pat is 17**

* * *

 **"Fat Pat" - April 1932**

It wasn't Patrick's fault that Raymond Schultz was barely literate. It wasn't Patrick's fault that Raymond pronounced "pilgrim" with a soft "g." It wasn't Patrick's fault that almost every kid _except_ Patrick burst out laughing. It wasn't Patrick's fault that Mrs. Smith was approximately 100 years old and too senile to stop Raymond's humiliation.

But right before the recess bell rang, Raymond looked directly into Patrick's eyes, "I'm gonna get kill ya' Curtis." Patrick shivered. _Why him?_ He was the only one _not_ making fun of Raymond.

On the playground Raymond and his goons surrounded Patrick yelling, "fatty, fatty, Patty, fatty!" Patrick had no meat on his petite frame, but calling someone "fat" was the worst insult Raymond could think of.

Patrick ignored them and went back to playing with his jacks.

As he was about to bounce the ball, Raymond stomped on his jacks. His goons laughed.

"Hey, Fat Pat! Look at me, Fat Pat!" Raymond grabbed Patrick by the collar and was about to punch him in the eye when a full force tornado landed on top of Raymond. It was Darrel.

"You leave my brother alone! You thupid idiot!" Darrel was seven, and even his pronounced lisp, courtesy of his two missing front teeth, couldn't take away from his bluster or his anger on his brother's behalf.

"Oh, you got your baby brother doing your dirty work?" Raymond crossed his arms and bore down on Darrel, "Othay thweetie. Me and Fat Pat was just having thome fun."

"Darrel…" Patrick began. He didn't want to see Darrel and Raymond fight, because he knew the minute Raymond laid a hand on Darrel, Patrick would kill him. If Patrick and Raymond got into it, then Raymond's older brother, Richard, would beat the crud out of Patrick.

Patrick wished he had a big brother.

Darrel just stood on his tip toes and strained his neck upwards so he stood eye level with Raymond.

"Don't call him Fat Pat!" Darrel punched Raymond right in the gut and Raymond went down with a cry that sounded like the cross between a squealing pig and a growling stomach.

 _Wow. My kid brother can pack a punch._ Raymond was no feather either, but Darrel with one punch knocked him to the ground. The other fellows stood around Raymond with their mouths open. A few of them started to bunch up their fists.

Patrick jumped in front of his brother, prepared to take the inevitable blow that would come Darrel's way.

Darrel just pushed Patrick away and bunched up his own fists. "Lithen, fellas. Anyone meth with my brother, I'm gonna beat him good. I ain't afraid of no beating or whippin' either."

It was comical really, the lisped second grader shaking his tiny fists at 4 fourth graders.

But, then something amazing happened.

The boys, including Raymond, turned around and left. They ran off, or hobbled off, in Raymond's case.

Patrick had never seen anything like it. His brother defeated the 4th grade bully with a simple punch. If Patrick hadn't seen the event for himself he wouldn't have believed it happened.

He grinned at his little brother. _What did I ever do to deserve you?_

For the rest of recess Darrel kept on retelling his exploits to anyone in ear shot, even to the Kindergarteners who were too busy pissing in the sandbox to listen.

Patrick started to feel annoyed. The other kids were looking at him and they were snickering. _Look, there's Paddy Curtis, he had to have his little brother save him!_

"'Member when I got Raymond good, Paddy? He ain't know what in tham hill hit him!"

 _Yeah, I was right there._

For the first time in his life, Patrick felt envious of his brother. It wasn't fair. He should be protecting his brother, not the other way around.

All the way home Darrel kept on "reenacting" his fight with Raymond, adding a few extra punches and imaginary kicks for good measure.

"Don't worry Paddy, they ain't gonna bother you no more!" Darrel's grin cracked wide.

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up._

"Yeah, you did good," Patrick said with a weak smile.

Of course, he would tell their parents everything that happened over dinner. Darrel did such a good job of telling the story that even Patrick leaned forward to take in Darrel's tale.

Daddy clapped, "that's my boy!"

Mama shook her head.

"I'm raising these boys to be good Christians, not running around like little heathens." Mama glared at Daddy, and for a second Darrel looked so crestfallen Patrick felt lousy for resenting his brother.

"Hey, some idiot picked on his brother, so our boy got back at him. Eye for an Eye, tooth for a tooth and all that, sounds pretty damn Biblical to me."

Mama hissed through her teeth the way she always did when Daddy swore.

"Looks like the Curtis spirit is alive and well in this one!"

Daddy tousled Darrel's hair and Darrel gave his second full cracked grin of the day.

"I teach my boys to protect their own. Ain't no one gonna mess with us." Patrick felt his father's glance, his judging eyes. Patrick let him down, he didn't defend himself. For Dale Curtis, a man who doesn't defend himself was worthless. He didn't have the Curtis spirit.

 _Why does everything have to be so difficult?_

The next weekend Patrick stood in the living room looking through the window at mid-morning clouds. He liked clouds, they were so pretty. Even though it was a Saturday, Mama was getting ready to head to church. Dale and Darrel clomped down the steps like a Clydesdale and his Colt.

"I gotta surprise for ya' son."

Dale and Darrel walked right passed Patrick, not saying a word.

Patrick watched his brother and father as they stood on their ant infested front porch. Dale presented Darrel with a pair of boxing gloves. They were old, smelly, came from the dump, and Darrel loved them.

"You's gonna get in more fights, you best do 'em properly. Gonna beat the crap out of any kid that bothers you, ain't you Darrel?"

"Yes, thir!"

Patrick watched as his father put his arm around his younger brother and led him out to the shed for his first boxing lesson.

 _That should be me_ , Patrick thought _. I should be the one beating up bullies for Darrel. That should be me with Daddy's arms around me._ He felt hot tears blind his eyes.

Mama grabbed her hat and purse that hung on the coat rack.

"Hey, Mama, can I go to church with you today? There ain't nothin' for me here."

* * *

 **"Stinky Sally"-June 1938**

Patrick ran the Brylcreem through his hair. He usually just let his hair flop forward, but tonight he combed his hair back letting a single curl hang over his forehead. He wished he looked like Gary Cooper. Now, that fella was handsome.

 _Stop it, stop thinking like that!_

He looked at himself in the mirror, adjusted the collar on olive green sports coat, re-buttoned his shirt and headed out the door.

"Woo hoo! Ya lookin' mighty fine there Paddy boy!" His father gave Patrick the thumbs up sign.

Patrick grinned.

"You gonna kiss her in the mouth?" Darrel scrunched up his face.

Before Patrick could respond, Darrel continued, "I don't see what the big deal about kissin' a girl is."

Daddy let out a big, belly filled laugh, "just wait a year, huh, Paddy?"

 _Yeah. Just wait a year._

Patrick rubbed his brother's head, "hey, the way I saw you make googly eyes at Ethel Bowman, you're gonna be kissin' girls sooner than you think."

Daddy hooted, "he got ya there Darrel. Man, ain't no gal can escape the Curtis charm."

Darrel turned bright red, but Patrick felt relieved.

 _I'm just a normal guy, teasing my kid brother and about to see my girl._

Patrick Curtis just turned fifteen and was heading out on his first date. They were going to the fairgrounds. Her name was Sally. She was smart, cute, in a nice, homespun way, and incredibly sweet. She also smelled like a garbage truck.

Her classmates christened her "Stinky Sally" and even Darrel wasn't above occasionally dropping a few "stinky" quips. The teachers were the worst. They pretended to be polite while scrunching up their noses and moving away from her. Yet, there was Sally, being nice to _everyone._

Patrick felt embarrassed on her behalf, but also admired the heck out of her.

He wanted to shake her sometimes. "Don't let these fools treat you like this! You are so much better than they are." But, he didn't. He just looked down at his desk every time the other kids plugged their noses when Sally walked by. He felt bad.

To make add insult to injury Sally's full name was Sally Pitts-Reek.

And Patrick thought he had it bad!

For a year Patrick saved up his money and planned on buying Sally a bunch of toilet water, but he thought better of it. For one, it might hurt her feelings. Sally wasn't dumb, she must have known she smelled bad and the other kids (and adults) made fun of her. If Sally could change her odor, she would.

But it was more than just wanting to protect Sally's feelings. If Sally stopped smelling Patrick would feel obliged to kiss her.

Patrick Curtis was thirteen when he first had an inkling he liked boys the way everyone else liked girls. It didn't bother him. He figured that all men went through the same phase, that it was like a butterfly shedding her cocoon, and soon enough he would like girls.

He never shed his cocoon.

At fourteen Patrick grew worried because the feelings he had towards other boys only became stronger. He spent hours in the bathroom and closet, praying that Yahweh would take away these feelings. He didn't.

Patrick's nerves grew with his secret feelings. He couldn't let anyone know. He had to hide.

He thought about asking a couple of girls out on dates, but stopped himself. He never knew what to say to other people. Darrel was the only person who could really get Patrick to open up. Worst of all, what would happen if the girl said yes?

Patrick didn't mind holding a girl's hand or putting his arm around her, but what would happen next? Patrick saw enough movies and enough kids necking at said movies to know what he was supposed to do, but what if he did it wrong? What if he failed some secret test? Then EVERYONE would know his darkest secret.

He couldn't let that happened.

But, like a rotten-egg angel, there was Sally Pitts-Reek.

Patrick liked Sally, but that wasn't the reason he asked her to be his gal. The guys might make fun of her, but no one would question Patrick's refusal to kiss her. She was the one gal he could date and not feel pressure to smooch. She was the perfect cover.

When word first spread that Patrick and Sally coupled, his teachers gave him a sympathetic smile and nod. Patrick knew what they were thinking: what a gentleman, dating that poor, unfortunate soul!

She was his charity case, and he her Dr. Schweitzer.

 _If only they knew._

Raymond Schultz, who managed to grow dumber each year, smirked at them, "Stinky Sally and Fat Pat in a tree, F-U-K-I-N-G." Raymond's lack of spelling skills a cold comfort to Patrick as the entire cafeteria burst into hoots and hollers.

 _Assholes._

Sally grabbed Patrick's arm. "Don't worry Paddy. If you are strong on the inside, they can't hurt you no matter what they say. They only reason they tease you is because they're weak and hurting themselves. Don't let 'em get to you."

He smiled. _What did I do to deserve someone as nice as you?_

So now in the middle of June, he was escorting Sally to the fairgrounds. She looked nice. She had on a pink dress and red sweater. The pink dress was old and a bit faded, but her hair was newly cut and pulled back with butterfly clips.

"You look real pretty Sally." She did.

Sally smiled, "my Daddy said we can stay out until 9:00, usually I have to be back in by 7:30, but he trusts you."

 _Of course he does._

They had a good time at the fair. He won her a stuffed panda bear and they shared a funnel cake. He took her to see the cars and told her all about their engines. She took him to see the 4H tent and told him all about her prize winning calf, Blue. They rode the Farris Wheel, twice. You could see all the way to Muskogee. It was real nice.

Patrick smiled. He had a real good time with Sally, she seemed to have a good time with him, most importantly, no one would ever know his secret. He looked at his watch; he would have her home by 8:45. It was a very good day.

"Hey Paddy, ain't that Buddy Smith?" Patrick looked and saw Buddy Smith from Sunday School walking so close to Becky Wood they looked like Siamese Twins.

"Yup."

Buddy and Becky gave each other a kiss. First closed mouth and short, then open mouth and real long.

"I thought you said you ain't allowed to kiss me on account of your church." Sally crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes.

Patrick felt shaky. "Yeah, we ain't supposed to hug, kiss, or even stand real close. If you ain't married, you have to stand at least 6 inches apart. Brother Elijah says that "the flesh is a dangerous mistress.''

That was partly true. Brother Elijah did say that the flesh was a dangerous mistress, but there was no rule about standing a certain distance from each other. Brother Elijah did say that only married couples could kiss and hold hands, but no one followed that rule.

"Then why is Buddy Smith over there kissin' Becky?"

 _Jesus Christ._

Sally looked like she was on the verge of tears and Patrick felt horrible.

But he looked over at Buddy and Becky, cooing to each other. Even though they were in public, Becky's hand reached into Buddy's pants. Buddy's face flushed. They ran behind the tree.

 _Just kiss her._

He couldn't. He knew he would mess it up. He would do it wrong. Kiss like a screwy fairy. Then it would be all over for him.

"I'm sorry Sally, I just can't."

Sally started to cry. Patrick wanted to cry. He had never made anyone cry before. To hurt someone as sweet as Sally made his stomach flip like the Tilt-A-Whirl.

"I thought you were different, Patrick Curtis, I thought you weren't like the rest of them." Her tears fell into her cotton candy, turning her hands into a gooey, sugary mess.

 _I AM different, that's why I can't kiss you._

"I'm so sorry Sally. It has nothing do with you though."

She snorted. "So why won't you kiss me Patrick Curtis? I'm your girl, we're a couple, why won't you kiss me?"

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her everything. Part of him thought that she would understand. But, he couldn't risk it; because even if she understood, no one else would, not Mama, not Daddy, not even Darrel.

"Is it because of the way I smell?" She said this so softy, Patrick had to lean in to hear her. People made fun of Sally almost every day, but she never made any mention of odor.

 _Of course not._

Patrick didn't know what to say. His mind swirled. His mouth stammered. His teeth chattered.

Sally started to shake, "just leave Patrick. I don't want to see you again."

Patrick reached his hand out to her. "Please Sally, let me at least escort you home. It's late, you shouldn't be walking home on your own."

She shot him a look blazing with hurt. "Ain't you a gentleman. If you're so worried you can always follow my scent. But you best stay back at least 20 feet, I don't want you to pass out and die."

She attempted to throw the stuffed panda on the ground, but her hands were so drenched in tear-stained cotton candy that the panda bear just stuck to her hand.

"Damnit!" Patrick never heard Sally swear before. She ripped the panda bear off her hand and threw it on the ground. A huge chunk of fur stuck to her hand. She ran off.

Patrick kicked the panda as hard as he could.

"Ow. SHIT!" A sweaty, but still fully-clothed, Buddy Smith emerged from behind the tree and tossed the panda bear in the direction it had flown. His fly was unzipped.

The next day Patrick made a decision. He wouldn't be returning back to school in the fall. He couldn't face Sally again.

* * *

 **"Funny Joe" - July 1938**

"Whatchya doin'?" Patrick Curtis leaned into his brother, speaking in a low voice to avoid detection.

"Makin' a spitball machine. You see the way Becky Wood and Buddy Smith are smooching all over each other? I'm gonna get them durin' Sunday School." Darrel let out a snicker.

Patrick shook his head. "Ain't you a bit old to be throwin' spitballs? You're twelve for Pete's sake."

"I'm thirteen."

"Man alive, that's even worse."

"Hey Paddy, you think Ethel Bowman really likes me?"

Just then, Sister Hazel put her hands on both boys shoulders, "please boys, Brother Elijah is giving a lovely sermon, your little tiffs can wait 'till after the Sabbath."

"Yes ma'am," Patrick whispered in as soft of a voice as he could manage.

"Yes'm," Darrel replied in a voice neither soft nor low.

Patrick stifled a giggle.

"Paddy, you think she's a good kisser?"

"Who, Sister Hazel?"

"No," Darrel chortled, "Ethel!"

Darrel confounded Patrick. He just turned thirteen and sometimes he acted like a knight in blue jeans: Giving his only coat to a classmate on a winter evening; going out of his way to escort girls home from school. Still other times, he would spend half his Sundays making spit ball machines.

Patrick loved his brother more than anything or anyone in this world. Maybe that was because no matter how rotten Patrick felt, Darrel could always be counted on to make him smile. He was an exuberant happy-puppy of a lad with an unlimited supply of grins and energy.

But sometimes, Patrick felt a burning envy towards his little brother. He knew he was evil for having these feelings. But, it just wasn't fair, everything came so easy to Darrel. Everyone loved Darrel. Darrel had tons of friends and could talk the ear off of anyone. Patrick didn't have a single friend besides Darrel. He hated talking to other people. He stammered and sounded stupid. Even in the looks department, Darrel came out on top. Darrel had their dad's tall, husky build, but without the gut. He had their mother's olive skin and thick, dark hair. Patrick was blessed with paste-colored skin, freckles, fiery red hair and a body that looked like twig that never received any water or sunshine.

Their father adored Darrel, he tolerated Patrick. Their mother preferred Patrick, but that was only because he caused less problems in church.

The one thing Patrick had over Darrel were his grades. Patrick loved to read. He loved to escape from his own life and live through his favorite characters. He studied hard and skipped a grade. Yet, a few years ago the boys both took an IQ test and Darrel's IQ came out on top. Darrel, who received more detention and hits from the Principal's paddle than "A's" had one of the highest IQs in the school.

It was too damn much.

Darrel had everything.

In his darkest moments, Patrick prayed to Yahweh that for once he could exchange 1% of his bad luck for 1% of Darrel's good luck. For once, he just wanted someone else to endure a small share of the burden.

...

 _But not this._

Not these dirty feelings. Not this longing. Not this fear. Not this self-hatred. Not Darrel. This was one burden he would gladly carry all by himself.

That Sunday, Brother Elijah was giving a sermon on his favorite topic, himself.

"I HEALED with anointing from Yahweh, so many sick people. They comes to me hobblin' on them bum leg, but I KNOWS what they problem is. It ain't have nothing to do with a bum leg; it is SIN. They are racked with sin! You know what, Brothers and Sisters? Once you heal 'em of their sins, you heal EVERYTHING about them.

Babies that had their brains busted, I healed 'em! Old men they say can never walk again, I healed 'em! But I don't just heal those who are physically sick. NO. I heal them who are sick in the mind and in the heart. A woman, lustin' over her own stepson. Imagine that Brothers and Sisters! Lustin' over her own KIN! Yet, I healed her from those evil thoughts. Now, she is a good, Christian woman."

Brother Elijah went on to describe all of the sins he healed and lives he changed.

"Ya know, Brothers and Sisters, my favorite story is about an ol' Sodomite called Funny Joe."

Patrick felt he knees buckle and his legs shake.

"Now, ol' Funny Joe was a real sick fella. Doin' things, well, may YAHWEH STRIKE ME DEAD if I even think of the perverse stuff Funny Joe did. But one day, Funny Joe comes to me and say, 'I'm real sick, heal me Brother Elijah."

Brother Elijah limped his wrist and pranced around the stage, imitating Funny Joe. Patrick looked around; even Darrel was chuckling at Brother Elijah's impression.

Brother Elijah straighten up and cast a dead serious look. "I look right at Funny Joe, right in his ol' dirty eyes, and I says to him, "Funny Joe, ya need YAHWEH! You is too sick for me. You is perverted. You is dirty. But gives yourself to Yahweh, and you shall be HEALED!"

Brother Elijah got on his knees and folded his hands in prayer position. "This is what Funny Joe said to me, 'Oh, please Brother Elijah, heal me! Heal me from my sin! Heal me from these dirty feelings. Help me. I'm so sick. I need ya' Brother Elijah."

Brother Elijah paused, he scanned the congregation and his eyes set right on Patrick. "SO I DID!"

Brother Elijah's voice boomed so loud that it echoed throughout the entire building. Patrick shook.

"Funny Joe, well he ain't so funny anymore. He is a regular, GOD FEARIN' Christian man. I'll do the same for you Brothers and Sisters. Whatever your burden, whatever sin you are carrying deep down inside of you, I will HEAL YOU!"

Patrick felt goose bumps on the back of his neck. He never like Brother Elijah. But maybe, just maybe, he would be the one who would heal Patrick.

* * *

 **Interlude 1938-1939**

Dropping out of school turned out to be the best decision of Patrick's life. He no longer had to face Sally, Raymond and the boys' locker room. He got a job working in a garage. He liked putting engines together, everything fit together and everything had its place.

When he as sixteen he started to attend night school in Muskogee. There were eleven other guys in the class. Most of them were in their forties, a few of them hadn't been in school in decades. Patrick, although the youngest, was the best educated guy there, the instructor had Patrick work as his assistant.

He had a good job and was earning his degree. But the feelings, they still continued. So Patrick continued to attend Friends of Yahweh every Sunday.

* * *

 **"The Book of Pat" - January 1940**

It was amazing; really, Brother Elijah was more insufferable in front of a small group than he was in front of the full congregation. Although there were only 5 other people in the room, Brother Elijah insisted on using a lectern and his "Confession Day" voice to deliver his sermon.

"Brothers and Sisters, we know what the WORD is: 'HELL is naked before him, and destruction hath no covering!"

Patrick rolled his eyes, he was the only guy in the class, but he guessed it was easier to say "brothers and sisters" instead of "brother and sisters."

"For the adulterer, the thief, the sodomite, the murderer, they ALL shall be before HIS glorious wrath in Hell!" Brother Elijah broke out into a Judgment Day grin. He was the only man who frowned talking about Heaven and grinned talking about Hell.

Patrick stomach and throat became tight. " _Sodomite_." Was Brother Elijah looking at him when he said that? No, he was just imagining things.

 _Stop. Being. So. Darn. Paranoid._

He nodded vigorously with every spittle-laced-utterance that emitted from Brother Elijah's tongue. _Throw them sodomites in hell? Yes, Brother!_ Yet deep down, Patrick wasn't even sure if he disagreed with Brother Elijah.

Last year, Patrick joined Brother Elijah's "Warrior Group." It was a mistake from the very start. The name was a misnomer. The only battle fought was the battle to stay awake during one of Brother Elijah's lectures. The five "Warriors" were all handpicked by Brother Elijah to join the group. He claimed he picked them because they were the most God-fearing out of all of the youths in the congregation. It just happened that 4/5ths of the group comprised of attractive, nubile, teenage girls.

Patrick wanted to quit long before, but he couldn't. For one, his sickness hadn't left him, he needed all of the help he could get. Second of all, he felt protective of the girls. He hated how Brother Elijah disrobed them with his eyes, how he read the most graphic Bible verses to them, taking a perverse pleasure in watching them squirm.

What Brother Elijah did was pretty amazing. In a town where tempers and pride ran hotter than the mid-day sun, Brother Elijah openly flirted with half of his female congregation and managed NOT to be tarred and feathered by their husbands and fathers. Part of it was due to Brother Elijah's looks. He was short, balding, drenched in sweat, even in the middle of winter. He didn't look that intimidating or appealing. Most of it was due to Brother Elijah's hold on the congregation. The true believers, like Mama, would do anything for Brother Elijah. If Brother Elijah told one of the Elders that he wanted to spend some 'alone' time with the Elder's daughter, Patrick had no doubt that the Elder would hand deliver her to Brother Elijah.

Patrick shivered.

Today it was Penny Williams who was the recipient of Brother Elijah's gaze. Patrick felt anger boiling up inside of him. Penny was very cute, but she wasn't exactly the smartest dress on the rack. It would be so easy for a man like Brother Elijah to take advantage of her.

Brother Elijah wiped the sweat off his forehead and headed towards the table where his "Warriors" awaited him. He looked at Penny's chest and got a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

Before Brother Elijah could take the empty seat next to Penny, Patrick turned to her.

"'Scuse me, can we switch seats? My ears have been ringing all day." He tried to laugh, but it just came out as a cackle. Man, he wished he had just an ounce of his brother's charisma.

Penny shrugged, "yeah, don't matter to me."

Patrick smiled, and just before Brother Elijah sat down, Patrick slid into the seat next to him.

"Well, looks like I got me a new seat mate!" Brother Elijah chuckled, but Patrick could tell he was burning inside.

 _Got ya_ , Patrick thought.

"Was there something about today's sermon that spoke to you in particular, Brother Patrick?" Patrick froze.

 _Oh. Yahweh._

Whenever Darrel was caught doing something he shouldn't, a not uncommon occurrence, he would laugh and charm his way out of trouble. Patrick just turned red. He looked at his shaking fingers. He felt his lunch swirl in his throat. Sweet potato pie was not so sweet the second time around.

He swallowed.

Blech.

"No Sir, I have some ringing in the ears; just wanna make sure I can hear." He smiled and tried to not to pass gas, a not uncommon occurrence when Patrick was nervous.

Brother Elijah continued on the Book of Job.

"Why did the knees prevent me? Or why the breasts that I should suck?" He bit down on the hard "k" in "suck" and looked directly at Penny.

Brother Elijah's mouth opened a bit and a barely audible whistle emitted from his lips. Patrick tried to block his view, but Brother Elijah twisted his body and smiled at Penny.

She smiled at Brother Elijah the way someone smiles at a grandfather, and given Brother Elijah's age, she wasn't too far off. She was completely unaware of his intentions, and for a second Patrick was floored that someone could be that dumb.

 _You're dumber than Raymond Schultz_ , Patrick thought. _I didn't even think that was possible._

Dumb or not, Patrick was not about to let Brother Elijah bite, chew and devour Penny with those perverted eyes all in the guise of giving a Bible lesson.

 _Pervert._

Patrick glared at Brother Elijah. He looked at his still twitching mouth, his flared nostrils and his eyes.

 _His eyes._

Patrick looked at Brother Elijah's eyes as they mimeographed Penny's body onto his brain.

His eyes were completely empty. His body, his hands, lusted at Penny, but his eyes were devoid of all feelings, even wicked feelings like control or hate.

 _Brother Elijah didn't feel anything towards Penny. He didn't feel anything towards any of these girls._

Patrick recognized that look immediately, because it was the same look he gave countless girls; the same confident smirk, protruding chest and empty eyes.

 _Yahweh._

 _Brother Elijah was sick. But not like Darrel thought. It was so much worse. Brother Elijah was sick like him._

Patrick excused himself, went to the bathroom and threw up.

Oh God. His whole pervert act was just that, an act. It all made sense. If Brother Elijah really lusted after Penny he wouldn't be hitting on her in front of the whole group, he would be more discrete about it.

That's how bad it was to be like Patrick. He was so afraid of being discovered that he went out of his way to have the entire church think he lusted after their wives and fantasized about having orgies with their daughters, just so they wouldn't suspect his true desires.

After washing his face and chewing a piece of Wrigley's, Patrick thought of just climbing out the window and hightailing it out there. The window was too small. Damnit. First he was this way, now for the first time in his life he was about 4 inches too tall.

There was no way out of the building. His jacket was still hanging over that chair, right next to Brother Elijah. He walked back into the room.

Brother Elijah stared at Patrick. "Well, brothers and sisters as I was sayin', and I quote: 'My ears had heard of you but now my eyes have seen you.'

He did not break his gaze.

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns**

 **The Bible verses Brother Elijah quotes from in "The Book of Pat" all come from "The Book of Job" King James Version.**

 **No, I'm not going "there" with Patrick and Brother Elijah. I love Patrick too much.**

 **I'll try to do a "light" chapter in the near future. Can't make any promises. ;)**

 **Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading & reviewing. **


	9. Secrets

**A/N: Okay, apologies to everyone. I'm still trying to plow through some Grade-A quality writer's block and I know this is a weak chapter. I just wanted to get something out. Story takes place around 1940-early part of 1941, Darrel is 15.**

 **A/N: For the unfamiliar, Laura/Rachel is the same woman. She is Darrel (Sr's) mother. Her birth name was Laura, but she now calls herself Rachel at the encouragement of her spiritual leader, Brother Elijah. Her husband, Dale, still refers to her as Laura in his internal dialogue.**

* * *

Patrick Curtis hadn't seen his brother this happy in years. Darrel Curtis was fifteen and in love. Her name was Karen Josephine, but she went by Jo. At dinner, Patrick made the innocent mistake of asking his brother what church this Jo attended.

Darrel sat straight up and his mouth converted into a sneer, he looked straight at their mother, who, as she often did when Darrel was talking, looked down at her Bible. In a loud voice, Darrel said, "she don't go to no church, she's a Quaker. She goes to prayer meetings."

Patrick knew that Darrel was just waiting for Mama to fly off the handle. Patrick didn't know any Quakers personally, but he knew that Mama thought anyone who did not attend Friends of Yahweh was a devil worshipper. The very idea that Darrel was sweet on a girl who didn't go to any church was likely to send Mama into a tizzy.

But Mama, not a hint of agitation in her voice and not looking up from her Bible, simply said, "she and you have a lot in common, I reckon" and continued to eat her liverwurst.

* * *

Rachel knew that her son wanted her to lose her temper, wanted her to scream, maybe even throw a dinner plate at him. She wasn't about to give him that satisfaction. Nope, that night two years ago she had made a decision to cast her son out. For years she did everything she could to raise him in the glory of God, now he shimmied in the glory of Satan. What he did with his life was no longer any of her concern; he was no longer her concern.

She still cooked for her son, still did his laundry, still mended his clothes, but her actions were without warmth or care. She may have a womanly obligation to take care of him, but she had no obligation to do so with joy or kindness.

It still agitated her though; the way Darrel smirked and sneered every time she talked about Brother Elijah and Friends of Yahweh. Worst of all was Dale. Years ago, if either one of the boys so much as raised their voices to her, Dale would have belted them without a moment's hesitation. Now, he saw the way their son rebuked her, rebuked everything she believed in, and he did nothing. He just sat there.

Patrick was never any help. He still went to church with her so she was grateful for that, but when it came to defending his mother's honor he was as useless as his father.

That was just fine, Rachel told herself. She had Yahweh, she had Brother Elijah, she had everything she needed.

 _Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. (Psalm 23:4)_

Part of Rachel was happy the way her family turned their back on her. Isn't this what Brother Elijah warned her all these years ago? That her family would tempt her down a path of unrighteousness? All these years, everyone made fun of Brother Elijah, yet all of his prophesies were coming true.

Sometimes, late at night before she turned off the light she remembered the little boy he once was, how his lion roar laughter filled her house. She missed that little boy. Some part of her still wanted to reach out to him, to still hold onto him. But, then she remembered her own mother. How her own mother refused to let go of her brother Chessel, no matter what Chessy did. Her mother gave into weakness. Rachel would never give in, she was strong.

Whenever she felt her heart reach out to her youngest son she just reminded herself that the heart was deceitful above all things, a mother's heart in particular. She could not trust herself.

* * *

At first, Darrel Curtis relished his new freedom. He was able to come and go as he pleased. One night he came home smelling of reefer, courtesy of Buddy Smith, and his mother just told him to make sure he turned off the light in the living room, "don't want to waste no electricity," she said in an even tone.

He grinned to himself, man, he couldn't believe all he was able to get away with! Shit, maybe he should have insulted Brother Elijah years ago.

Soon enough his new freedom was a one-way trip to Alcatraz. No matter what he did, she didn't care. One day he sat with his shoes on the couch (a no, no) while smoking a cigarette (another no, no) letting the smoke blow into the Bible that sat on his lap (a major apocalyptic no, no). When she saw him, her face turned red and her mouth opened up into a holy scream, but nothing came out. She closed her mouth and walked away from him.

Darrel knew it was crazy, but in that moment he just wanted his mother to yell at him, belt him once, and then he would know that she still cared for him.

* * *

Her name was Rose. She was not the type to have a fling, especially not with a married person, but then again neither was Dale Curtis.

For all of his faults, Dale never cheated on his wife, never once looked at another women with temptation, until he found out that his wife tricked their boy, took him to church and had that Brother Elijah fool whip him in front of the entire congregation.

Dale was not a man who got even, he got angry. But, he couldn't get angry at his wife. He couldn't yell at her, certainly couldn't hit or punch her. Without his temper, without his fists, he felt as naked and exposed as a jay bird. He thought about divorcing her, thought about just catching the 420 out of Muskogee. But, he couldn't do that either. So, he did the one thing he could, he got even with her by cheating.

He didn't just sleep with the first willing woman, no, he took his time, scouted them out. Picked a woman who was decent looking and decent acting and set to charm the panties off her. He cut down on drinking and eliminated swearing completely, he got a new haircut and a new suit and tie.

Dale liked it too. Yeah, it was great to know that he still had it, that he could still charm and woo the ladies, but he liked talking to her. It was nice to have a conversation with another adult that didn't involve swearing, cock bragging (his buddies) or the Bible (his wife).

* * *

To Rose's surprise, Dale turned out to be a gentle and tender lover. He wasn't good at the sweet-nothings part, but it wasn't like she was looking for a poet. Besides, too much talk just spoiled the mood. When it came to making love he took his time and actually asked her how she was feeling and if it was okay for him to continue. She never had a man ask her that before.

She didn't understand why he wanted her to kiss his handkerchief though; didn't he have a wife and two sons? Wasn't he worried about being caught? But to her consternation he simply said, "don't worry darling, you ain't got nothing to worry about," and kissed her hand like he was Sir Galahad.

It made her uncomfortable, but she kissed the handkerchief. "Now," Dale continued, I think there are some other parts of me that could use some ruby red loving."

* * *

When he got home Dale planned on "innocently" dropping the lipstick kissed handkerchief in his clothes hamper. Laura would see it and know that he was with another woman. But when he got home, he just couldn't do it. He loved Laura, she infuriated him and he still loved her. He hated how he treated their boy, but he loved her. He couldn't hurt her. He thought about the young teenager he had met all of these years ago, she had been hurt enough to last a lifetime. He was not about to add his name to the long list of men who hurt and betrayed her.

Dale felt sick. He couldn't believe what he had done. Couldn't believe he had violated his marriage vows, amongst the only vows he took seriously, just to get back at his wife. It wouldn't work anyways. Laura would never divorce him. She believed divorce was an unforgivable sin. She stuck by Dale through all of his drinking spells, his refusal to go to church with her and all the other mistakes he made. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did, she wouldn't cut him off.

He threw the handkerchief towards the garbage can, throwing out that piece of trash and all it symbolized. Dale Curtis turned on the light and saw his youngest son looking down at the floor at the kissed handkerchief and then at his father.

* * *

Darrel just laughed a soft, bitter laugh. Of course his daddy was screwing another woman. He should have known better. For years all he wanted was one good parent, one normal parent. But that was too fucking much to ask for wasn't it? For years he gripped onto his Daddy, his one 'good' parent while Mama was off at Friends of Yahweh. He should have known his Daddy would screw him; it was all he apparently knew how to do.

Daddy didn't try to deny anything, he didn't yell, he didn't threaten, he just looked down at the kissed handkerchief "now it's your secret too."

That night Darrel thought about telling his brother everything. He didn't like the idea of carrying Daddy's dirty secret all alone. Besides, with Mama getting drunk on Brother Elijah and Daddy getting plain drunk, Paddy was the only normal family member Darrel had left.

"Hey, Patrick, if there is someone you know who is doin' something real dirty, but it's a secret, is it okay to tell people about it, or do ya just got to keep it to yourself?"

Patrick turned grey and Darrel could see his body shake and heave.

"You okay, Pat?" Darrel was worried, his brother seemed fine just a few minutes ago. Pat ran into the bathroom and threw up.

"Aww, man, I'm sorry Pat. Didn't know you was sick."

Patrick looked up at his brother, saliva and vomit still trickled down his chin, "yeah, Darrel, I'm real sick. You best stay away from me, don't wanna catch what I got."

Darrel looked at his brother; his eyes were begging and pleading, but also filled with shame. In that instance everything came together: why he dated Stinky Sally two years ago, why he would aggressively and awkwardly flirt with girls, but had no girlfriend, maybe even why he still belonged to the screwy church.

 _Shit._

He didn't know what to say to his brother, didn't really want to talk to him in this moment, didn't even want to look at him. Darrel Curtis stared at the bathroom tile, just as he stared at the kitchen tile early this morning, "everything is so screwed up."

Patrick nodded and went back to throwing up.

Darrel wobbled back into their bedroom, he felt woozy. He plopped down on his bed, _guess I'm keeping two secrets now._

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns. Mama's line about Darrel " _For years she did everything she could to raise him in the glory of God, now he shimmied in the glory of Satan. What he did with his life was no longer any of her concern; he was no longer her concern."_ Is a paraphrase of the book title "Dancing in the Glory of Monsters" by Jason Stearns**

 **Thanks for reading, I know I had a lot of POV changes in a short chapter and I had trouble with the pacing.** **I appreciate it. :)**


	10. The Rodeo: Part I

**Apologies to anyone who is actually involved in the rodeo, hopefully you can graciously overlook my obvious lack of knowledge! ;)**

* * *

 **1956**

Sodapop Curtis is eight years old and sitting next to his dad. Soda is a beautiful child with a radiant smile. His father is handsome, but lays no clam to his son's almost ethereal features.

Their grins are both wide, but look closer. Soda's grin is mischievous and joyful; Darrel's devil-may-care-grin is carefree for now, but capable of bursting into a shout of anger at a moment's notice. They each have their dad's smile.

Neither one can sit still. Soda shifts back and forth in his seat. He stretches his arms above his head, then in front of his body. His dad follows his lead, stretching his own arms and then tapping his feet on the ground. Soda joins him. Fingers are next. Soda taps his fingers against his thighs, a rapid drum roll. Darrel taps his fingers against each other, hitting the soft cling of his ring.

Their rhythm is a high strung melody, filled with fast beats and surprise crescendos.

Father and son are restless, anxious for the competition to begin.

Soda's dad is thirty-two, he looks younger, and his wide set grin only serves to accentuate his youthful appearance. He wears a slight scruff of a beard, the result of a weekend without shaving, that the result of a weekend out gambling and maybe a little bit of too much drinking, he doesn't remember.

Anger bubbles up inside of him as he thinks of all the whiskey he drank. He can usually hold his liquor and usually knows when to stop. Not that weekend. He feels ashamed. No, it's deeper than shame, it's revulsion. As a child he promised himself he would not end up like his father.

His three day stubble only makes him look like a young man painfully growing his first whiskers, not like the married father of three boys that he is.

The boy is blonde and the man has dark hair. But under their matching cowboy hats, tan, both lay possession to the same dark brown eyes that move rapidly back and forth taking in everything in sight.

It's rodeo time.

* * *

 **1931**

Darrel Curtis is six the first time he participates in a rodeo. He loves it all: sheep, horses, bulls. Even the lambs, although that's for the babies, tickle him.

Especially this lamb named Poppy, he ate right out of Darrel's hand!

He's already won a tin whistle for placing first in a calf roping competition. Everyone cheered for him. It made Darrel feel mighty big and special. He puts the whistle in his pocket. Maybe Daddy will teach him how to play "Home on the Range" when they get home? Mama doesn't let him sing those songs anymore, she calls them 'wicked' but Daddy still sings.

The man with the straw hat and red gingham shirts asks Darrel is he wants to ride a calf.

"She's a bit of a spirit, son, you want to give her a spin?"

Darrel nods. He helped Mrs. Stead milk a cow once, and sat on top of a cow at the County Fair, a meandering thing called Mrs. O'Leary, but he's never rode a baby bull before.

Holding on to Darrel by waist and placing him on the calf, the red gingham man asks Darrel, "who are ya, sonny?"

 _Who is he?_

Darrel is six years old. He is the son of Dale and Laura Curtis and the younger brother of Patrick Curtis. His neighbor calls him a "little dickens" just because he accidently threw his ball into her flower bed. Mrs. Stead calls him "spirited." His teacher calls him "incorrigible," he doesn't know what that word means, luckily, neither does Daddy. His brother calls him Pony Boy. His Mama, when she's in a good mood, will hold him close and call him her "little lion."

She hasn't been in a good mood much of late.

But, on top of the calf he's no longer Darrel Curtis. No, he's out on the open range. He can hear the sound of the cattle in the background, his tin whistle is his Colt .45, his overalls and shirt are his chaps and vest, his hair is his cowboy hat, the calf is a full grown ferocious bull; and _he is a cowboy._

"I asked you a question, what's your name?" The man slaps Darrel on the back, hard.

"Darrel Curtis, mister." He snaps back to reality.

"Hold on, Darrel." The man releases the calf (and Darrel) from the chute.

For a little bitty thing, she sure does move fast. She bucks him off. He lands in a pile of dust.

"You okay, sonny?"

Darrel's body is throbbing, "yes, mister, I'm okay." He tries to keep the sting of the tears out of his eyes.

"Well, then, git up! You fall, you just gotta git yourself on up again." The man's voice is rough, like sandpaper.

The man helps Darrel stand up. He brushes the dust off Darrel's pants.

"You cryin' son?" His voice is teetering between annoyance and disgust.

He gives Darrel a little pat on his bottom.

Darrel lies and shakes his head no. "No, mister, I ain't cryin' just got some dust in my eyes."

He kind of wants a hug right now. But he's not a baby, or a girl.

The man laughs. "Well, what are you waiting for Darrel Curtis? Git back on that calf!" His voice is harsh and firm.

Darrel nods and gets back on the calf.

He falls two more times.

Each time the man helps Darrel get back on the calf. Each time the man barks at Darrel to "hold on!" But each time his voice is filled with less annoyance and more encouragement and pride.

The fourth time he doesn't fall. The man cheers "yahoo!" The man pounds Darrel on the back and tells him, "You're doing great sonny!"

The celebratory back pounding hurts more than falling off the calf.

But, Darrel grins.

He doesn't fall off the fifth time, nor the sixth.

By the seventh time the man and calf are far more exhausted than Darrel, who could do this all day if given the chance.

"Darrel, you're going to need to give me a rest; besides there are other children who want a ride."

Darrel looks around and there aren't many kids around. He figured the man is just tired.

The man shakes Darrel's hand.

"I suspect I'm going be hearing a lot about you in a few years. Maybe even here about you performing in this rodeo as a cowboy." He has a twinkle in his eyes.

 _Holy Gee, a cowboy!_

At school the next day the calf becomes a steer, who by recess turns into a bull, who on the walk home transforms into "the meanest bull ever!"

Nobody believes him, except for Ernie Petersen, who believes anything; but that's okay, Darrel was there, he knows, he remembers what the man told him, _**he's a cowboy.**_

* * *

 **1936**

Darrel Curtis was eleven years old when he decided to skip school in order to see Lee Dwayne ride bull at the rodeo in Dewey. Darrel pulled his big brother into his scheme, "oh come on Paddy be a pal. Besides, it ain't like Mrs. Warner is even gonna notice I'm gone, she's so senile anyways!"

To get to Dewey he stole a ride on the freight, a talent he learned from his father.

Not having enough money for a ticket, Darrel jumped over the low fence; the cuff of his jeans snagged on a piece of barbed wire.

But it was all worth it to see Lee Dwayne in person.

At 5'3 Lee was a scrubby old sonafabitch, with corn yellow hair and sky blue eyes that reminded Darrel of the wide, wild prairie lands. He never backed away from the toughest bull, hell, he got offended if he got a tame bull.

Lee wasn't stupid though. He respected the bull. When he was out in the arena he played an almost duet with the bull: buck, spin, hold, dismount. It was, according to eleven year old Darrel Curtis, "the damn most beautiful thing I ever seen!"

Most of the people in Dewey that day were there to see Lee Dwayne, even the other cowboys stopped what they were doing to watch Lee work his magic.

And work his magic he did. He had the crowd eating out his hand, not so much cheering him on like they did with other riders, but mesmerized by the hypnotic movements of man and bull.

It was his third time in the arena that afternoon. The bull was named Sister Belle, and Darrel couldn't help but snicker and think of Sister Ruth back at Friends of Yahweh. Yup, they both had the same snot nosed expression and angry snort.

Darrel is sitting crossed legged, his knees hitting against the fence that separates the rodeo from the crowd. He likes to get right up in the action.

The announce Lee Dwayne and Sister Belle.

Darrel jumps up and cheers for them both. He can't sit still when Lee is on.

He lasted six seconds.

He fell off the bull landing with his legs in the air like a fell calf. The rodeo clowns started to dart in trying to distract Sister Belle. Lee started to scurry away from Sister Belle, as an old pro he knew that the first rule of bull riding was to GET BACK UP OR GET AWAY. It wasn't just a nice philosophy; it meant the difference between a broken leg and a broken neck.

But before he could get up, before he could crawl away, before the rodeo clowns had a chance to make their move, Sister Belle stomped on Lee's chest, two tons of angry bull.

It made a godawful sound. Not Lee. Any sound Lee Dwayne made was muffled by the sound of broken bones and the shrieks emerging from the crowd. One lady threw up. And Darrel pressed his hands against ears, still hearing that echo of the crush in his mind.

The announcer, his voice shaky and high pitched, had the crowd pray for Lee and most dutifully went along, but Darrel thought it was stupid; after all, it wasn't like their prayers were going to do Lee any good now.

Some of the crowd were looking down at their feet, perhaps they were still praying, but a good number of them were staring at Lee, just at hypnotized by his broken form as they ever had been by any trick.

Darrel didn't look at the floor or at Lee, but he looked at Sister Belle. Darrel figured they would kill Sister Belle and Darrel felt kind of sorry, even if she did kill a man. Three men were trying to pry Sister Belle off Lee Dwayne.

But sitting on Lee, Sister Belle didn't look angry either, in fact, she looked like she was almost at peace. Darrel thought she looked like someone fluffing up their pillow before hitting the hay, only this time her pillow just happened to be a man's chest.

They ended the competition early that day and _sorryfolksbutnorefunds_. Darrel felt his back pocket for his pen and piece of paper, he had planned on asking Lee for his autograph. He threw the pen and paper on the ground, wasn't no use for it now.

The ground was covered with disregarded ticket stubs, popcorn, peanuts and fried pickles.

As they were leaving the arena the quiet shock and murmurs of sadness gave way to increasingly loud complaints about the lack of refunds.

The man in front of Darrel, a slender cowboy with a full moon face, started to grumble. "Well, dang. I was promised an afternoon of bull, not no six seconds of watching a man being stomped to death. You better believe these bastards are gonna give me my money back."

Anger blared out of Darrel.

"HIS NAME WAS MR. LEE DWAYNE AND HE WAS THE GREATEST BULL RIDER OF ALL TIME!"

A few people turned around to look at Darrel, and some of those people looked down with shame that they were going on about a lack of refunds when a man just died.

But not the cowboy.

The cowboy turned faster than a caught jack rabbit to face Darrel, "who the hell are you, his kin?" He sneered at Darrel.

 _I wish,_ Darrel thought.

"No, sir."

"Then you best just shut the hell up."

"Damn kid got his petticoat all bunched up his ass" the cowboy said to no one in particular.

Darrel shut the hell up. He wanted to take a swing at the man, but he shut the hell up. He'd seen too blood much today.

Other men talked about Lee like they were philosophers, "he died doing what he loved, ain't no crying 'bout that," a stocky middle age man told his friend.

The friend, an even stockier cowboy in dirty chaps, just nodded in agreement, "when the good Lord calls your number you ain't got no choice. You just go."

The first man placed his fingers on his chin, "yup, Siree, better to doin' something you love than in a blasted dust storm, or out in California."

And like that, Lee Dwayne was mourned, buried, disregarded and forgotten by the crowd that just a short while ago was going nuts over him.

Not Darrel. He can't stop thinking of Lee. His cocksure smile, the way he waved to the crowd, his broken body.

Darrel made the reverse trip back into town. He hardly spoke two words at dinner. He doesn't look at anyone, just stares down at his plate. Darrel, who usually had the appetite of a bull, could barely finish his meal.

He readied for bed in silence.

At first, Patrick Curtis was relieved that his brother was quiet for once. Darrel Curtis's loquaciousness annoyed his brother at times, especially when Patrick Curtis was trying to read, but his silence was even louder.

Darrel looked at the cheap, plastic bull that stood on his nightstand. He drew his finger over the chipped red-brown paint, looking at the bull's missing left eye.

He didn't look at his brother.

Patrick put down his copy of _The Three Musketeers_ and asked his brother, "how was the rodeo?"

 _AAAHHHH!_

Darrel takes the toy and throws it across the room.

He lets out a scream. It's a frenzied, guttural sound.

Mama tells the boys to be quiet, and then asks if everything is okay.

Darrel looks at Patrick. His eyes have a wild look to them, they dart back and forth.

Patrick quickly says yes to his mama's question. He hates lying.

Harsh, angry breaths rack through Darrel's chest.

Paddy took a few deep breaths himself. His legs started to shake. He's never seen his brother look like this.

The anger. The fury. The hopelessness.

Paddy doesn't want to admit it, but in that moment Darrel looks a bit like Daddy. It scared him.

Sobs echoed through Darrel's chest, his shoulders and arms tensed up and snot bubbles blew out of his nose like steam on the locomotive.

He hates crying. Only sissies and little girls cry. That's what Daddy said. Darrel hardly ever cried, not even when he fell out of a tree and broke his arm or when Daddy beat him with a belt.

But he cries now.

He didn't know why he was crying. Yeah, he was sad about what happened to Lee, but it was more than that.

Everything fell apart.

Daddy was drinking more and more, Mama was going on benders of her own-Bible benders, and even Patrick started to seem more distant.

Darrel didn't have anyone. Not even cowboys like Lee would come to his rescue.

But Darrel didn't want to talk about any of that with Patrick. Not tonight.

Patrick looked almost as broken as Darrel felt. Patrick always looked real sad when his brother was in pain.

Darrel climbed into Paddy's bed.

"You don't think I'm too old for this do you," he asked between hiccups and gulps.

Patrick did think that eleven was a bit too old to be climbing into bed with other people, but he shook his head no and made room for his little brother.

He was glad when after a few minutes his brother calmed down.

Patrick laid on his side, his hand propping up his head. Darrel laid flat on his back.

Tossing aside his book, there was no way he was going to get through it tonight, Patrick asked Darrel "what's wrong?"

Darrel shook his head, thinking of Lee's smashed, broken body, "everything is so broken Paddy."

And Patrick Curtis, thinking of his own internal brokenness just stared up at the ceiling.

"I know."

* * *

 **1938**

Darrel Curtis is thirteen when he learns to ride bull. His relationship with his mother is as broken as Lee Dwayne's body. He feels anger boiling up inside of him. He doesn't know what to do with it. He was usually a happy kid. Now, he doesn't know what to do. So, he rides bulls. He takes the falls.

When he's on the bull he's not angry, he feels nothing but a rush. He's free. It's only afterwards that he feels the anger and the sadness.

* * *

 **1939**

Her real name was Karen, but she went by her middle name, Josephine. She was cousin or something to Mrs. Stead and she and her family lost everything in a dust storm up in Kansas. Her family moved in with Mr. and Mrs. Stead and she and her siblings got jobs helping out at the stables and with the cattle.

I had a lot of friends, but Jo was the only person, besides Paddy, that could shut me up.

She didn't shut me up by talking ether, she did it by listening. She was the first person since Paddy who listened to what I had to say; who didn't look bored or listless when I started to talk about my horses.

And the more questions she asked me about horses and the rodeo, the more I wanted to shut up and learn more about her.

But she won me over by being a real nice gal, even to, especially to, Paddy. I love Paddy, but if you don't know him, he's kinda cold when you first meet him. But Jo was just real nice to him, and Paddy told me that he liked her. If she got his seal of approval, she was A-okay in my book.

She wanted me to teach her how to barrel race. I just shook my head. Jo is a tough girl, and a real smart cookie and part of me was afraid that she would outdo me in riding just like she managed to outdo me in everything else.

I wasn't good at much, but I was good at rodeo. I didn't want no one to outdo me. Even Jo.

But Jo is not the type of person you tell no to. She's a stubborn gal. And without saying a word, she walked right over to the stall and started to put the saddle on Bucket, a not so very calm horse.

"Oh come on Jo, you can't ride Bucket, you're gonna get hurt!"

Jo just looked at me with this look of determination and anger, and let me tell you something, as sweet as she is, her anger is not something I want lay claim to.

"Rollo, get the barrels out!" Rollo was Jo's younger brother, he's a good kid, but a bit meek. But with a big sister like Jo, I guess it's hard not to.

I turn to Rollo, "you really gonna do this? Come one, bud, your sister never rode barrel before in her life. Heck, has she ever ridden a horse before? And, I ain't talkin' about no pony ride at the county fair either."

Rollo just shrugged his shoulders, "Curtis, one thing I learned is to never doubt my sister."

Cripes, what a little push over.

Jo knocked down all of the barrels. If she was competing she would of gotten a big fat zero. It took her a long time to get around the pattern. At one point Bucket just sat down. "Come on Bucket, come on boy, let's go."

Jo's face turned bright red with embarrassment.

Jo tried to prod Bucket, but he just stayed there. I laughed at her, just like Jo to pick the most stubborn horse.

She scowled at me and then looked like she wanted to cry. Boy howdy, did she look angry. And hurt. And embarrassed.

"She thinks you're making fun of her," Rollo told me.

"Why the heck would she think that?"

"She always thinks people are laughing at her." I hear a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"I ain't making fun of her, heck; I think she's pretty brave."

And stubborn. And pigheaded. I didn't say that part out loud though.

Jo was just too damn sensitive. She took herself way too seriously.

But she stayed on that horse.

And I did the one thing I could; I stood up and cheered for her, as loud as I ever cheered for any cowboy, louder than I ever cheered for Lee Dwayne.

She smiled at me. A real smile too.

"Way to go Jo! You're doing great! Come on! Keep on going! Don't give up!"

And she never did.

From that moment Bucket was Jo's horse, and Jo, though she didn't know it yet, was my girl.

Now, if only someone could teach her to not be so damn sensitive of all the time.

* * *

 **1940**

By the time I was fifteen Mr. Stead was training me to be next Lee Dwayne. But it was clear to anyone with half a brain that I was never gonna be like Mr. Dwayne. I just didn't have the patience. When I barreled out that chute I couldn't think straight, I just relied on pure adrenaline and this manic energy that lasted long after I left the arena.

"Darnit Curtis, you take 'em any hotter and you're going to get burned."

"Ah, you know me Mr. Stead, I like my horses hot and my bulls hotter. Ain't no use in riding if there ain't some excitement involved."

Mr. Stead just shook his head at me, but he was smiling. He knew, after all he was a cowboy himself.

The result was that I had endured two broken legs, a fractured arm, numerous bruises and cuts; and still refused to give up my bulls. I was a stubborn SOB.

* * *

 **1940**

I play hooky from school a lot. No one notices, or cares. My grades drop, but I still manage to pass all my classes. I think my teachers just want to get rid of me.

I got suspended a week for fighting. I beat up a punk who made fun of Jo's teeth. They're kind of messed up. But that's okay, she has gorgeous gams, pretty good tits, a nice face and long blonde hair. He shouldn't have done that. I didn't just beat him up because she's my girl, but because I hate when idiots make fun of people. Now, he's missing two front teeth himself, so what goes around, comes around.

Buddy Smith, by virtue of being able to get me some high quality reefer from Tulsa became my best friend.

I don't talk at all to my mama, or rather, she don't talk at all to me. It's just the way things are.

I smoke a lot, but I don't drink, I ain't gonna be like my Daddy. Lousy drunken cheat.

I still get along with Patrick, my anchor, but I see him less and less.

Mr. and Mrs. Stead are real good folks and I spend as much time with them as I can, but I know I overstay my welcome.

And Jo and her family. Her family is kind of kooky, they're pacifists, which mean they don't believe in fighting,which is real rank, if you ask me, but they're nice folks.

Jo is nice. She's real funny too, unless if she's the butt of the joke, in which case she gets bull-hoppin' mad. It's kind of annoying. But, I still like her.

One day Jo takes a seat next to me in homeroom. Because Jo is smart and I'm lazy, homeroom is the only class we have in common.

"Heard you have a rodeo competition tomorrow," she looks right at me. She has on a plaid skirt that goes down to her ankles. I think she should wear shorter skirts. She has light blue eyes. I never really noticed them before.

"Yeah, you wanna come and watch?" I thought maybe we could see a movie afterwards, or just look at the stars. Jo loves looking at the stars and the clouds and the sunset. I think looking at 'em stars is a real grind-they don't do nothing, but Jo likes them, and she's my gal.

She shook her head, "I have to work. Darrel, just be careful."

I give her a grin, "aww, Jo, you ain't got nothing to worry about, I'm an old pro at the rodeo by now. Them bulls are scared of me!"

I give her a smirk and puff my chest up. I'm a little bit scared of one of the bulls, Sinister, that I'm gonna be riding, but she don't need to know that.

I laugh.

She doesn't.

"I wasn't only talking about the rodeo, Darrel."

I knew that. I may be lazy and a troublemaker, but I wasn't stupid.

* * *

 **S.E. Hinton owns**

 **Thank you for reviews, they are my manna. :)**


	11. The Rodeo: Part II

**A/N: Experimenting with a more 'choppy' fractured writing style as Darrel narrates this chapter. Some swearing, sexual situations, sexism, etc. Lots of metaphors. ;)**

* * *

 _Out of all my boys, only Soda goes nuts over the rodeo._

 _Darry, my shadow, had his heart snatched up by football, and she ain't letting him go. Every time I took Darry to the rodeo he just nagged at me the entire time about the smell._

 _"Dad, it smells really bad! It smells like someone died." He made a dramatic gesture with his face, plugging his nose and rolling his eyes back. Now my boy may be smart, hardworking and a real solid kid, but don't let no one tell you my boy don't have a flair for the dramatic when he wants to._

 _"Son, I could use one of your dirty socks to blow up them Russians, so just shut up and watch the damn show, okay, honey?" I made sure to say the last word extra loud._

 _He scowled at me, more upset that I called him 'honey' in public than anything else._

 _I smirked and went back to watching the rodeo. That shut him up._

 _Pony, my champion stargazer and dreamer didn't have the heart for rodeo at first._

 _The first time I took my youngest to the rodeo he cried like a wild banshee and Jo had to take him out of the arena to calm him down._

 _Afterwards I found the two of them sitting in the grass in front of our car, not saying anything to each other, but sharing a secret world that I couldn't enter._

 _I knelt down besides my youngest, my legs sore from constantly standing and sitting all afternoon._

 _"Hey there Pony, what's wrong?"_

 _My sweet boy looks at me his eyes smoldering with anger, "they was gonna hurt animals and you didn't do nothin'!" Ain't no one can carry righteous anger like my youngest._

 _I tried not to laugh, but it was hard, especially when Pony scrunched up his hands into little fists, a perfect imitation of his oldest brother, "aww, those bulls like it. They were having fun!" I didn't bother telling him that if he was gonna get emotional, he should save his tears for the poor fella who got thrown off the bull and landed face first in the fence._

 _Now that fellow was worth shedding a few tears for._

 _I brushed his red hair, Paddy's hair, but with Jo's curls; with my hands, careful not to rub my calloused hands too harsh against his soft skin._

 _Nowadays he likes the rodeo, but I have a feeling that's more due to Soda's influence than anything I've done._

 _But Soda, he always got it. If Darry is my shadow, and Pony my dreamer, than Soda is my cowboy._

 _Jo gets it too. But then again, Jo knows the deepest darkness of my soul and still loves me despite it all._

 _Her sister, Lucy, don't get it though, when I talk to her about the rodeo, my voice pressured with excitement and enthusiasm, she just crinkles her nose, "but Darrel, isn't it dangerous? Don't you get worried that someone could get hurt?"_

 _Shoot. I love Lucy and all, but that woman just don't get it. But that's okay, I don't get half of the stuff she talks about, so we're even._

 _Rodeo is just like life, it ain't a matter of 'if' someone will get hurt, but how hard and if they can get up again._

 _But it ain't bloodlust that calls me to the sport. Not anymore. No, now it's the art. It's the magic of sitting underneath a blanket of blue sky with just stars shimmering above, seeing these magnificent beasts and the animals they ride on dance on the edge between violence and gentleness between being wild and being tame._

 _It's only eight seconds, but if, as they say, God created the world in only seven days, why wouldn't he devote eight seconds to pure magic?_

* * *

I never noticed the crowd. I don't care if there was 30 people in the stands or 3,000, once I got on that bull their voices faded away. My eyes narrowed, my breathing heavy, my muscles tensed up. You can't tell the difference between me and bull. I float on top of her.

* * *

Jo tells me I'm like a colt. "You're always getting yourself in trouble!"

"Yeah," I give her a sly grin, "but I'm fun!"

* * *

Jo, Paddy and me go down to watch the rodeo. Paddy brings a book. Jo watches the horses. I watch her. Paddy smirks at me. I shrug my shoulders.

* * *

Jo cheers me on. If I do bad, she don't make excuses or tell me that I did a good job. She's honest. "You were a little bit too cautious" or "You lost control out there." But no matter if I come back with a trophy or with a bruise-or both, she cheers me on.

* * *

Paddy left for Oklahoma City, got a seasonal job. Out of everyone I knew Paddy was the last person I'd ever imagine leaving our town, but he ended up being the first person who actually had the guts to try to make it on his own. I was proud of him, but a bit envious. But I can't leave, I still got my schooling, still got my rodeo, still got Jo.

Yeah, I'm still in school. How's that for kick in the pants?!

* * *

Buttercup, my horse that Mr. Stead gave me, came to live with me. It was one of the best days of my life. I built her a real nice stall too. Jo's little brothers helped. Or, at least tried to help, they mostly goofed off and one of them, Johnny, I think, accidentally hammered his thumb.

I throw a "Welcome Home, Buttercup!" party. Jo wore a party hat and bought over party favors. She looked real cute.

Jo rode her. She was the only person I let ride my horse. She's special.

I told Jo I wanted to see her ride Buttercup naked. I laughed, hoping she would think I was just goofing around, but I was serious.

Jo chortled, "Sure, Darrel, I'll be your Lady Godiva and you'll be my Peeping Tom."

I had no idea what she was talking about, but she has a nice laugh. It's a deep laugh and there's some roughness to it. I like that. I hate those girls who are afraid of getting themselves muddy. Jo's not afraid.

* * *

My Daddy sold my horse. I charged him like a raging bull. I never hated anyone like I hated my daddy. Hate is too weak a word to describe what I feel. I want to bite him, I want to devour him. Destroy him.

He looks like a cornered animal.

"All you care about is your damn horse! That's all you care about! I ain't takin' it no more Darrel!" That wasn't true, I cared about Paddy and my bulls and the Steads and Jo and her family. I just didn't care much for him.

He let out a yelp and started tackling me. Our fight turned around so suddenly, I didn't realize it was happening. One second I'm going after Daddy, the next moment he pinned me down. I blacked out. I don't remember nothing that happened. When I came to, my mouth was filled with blood and my vision was blurry. My teeth were on the ground. Four teeth. Mama, Daddy, Paddy and me. Broken.

I left home the next night. Before I left I drove my father's Ford through the stable; if Buttercup wasn't gonna be using the stable I'd be damned if that drunk and that woman used it.

I dropped out of school, worked full time at the stables and do rodeo whenever I can.

I dream about sinking my teeth into my Daddy. But I can't destroy him as much as he destroyed me.

* * *

Sinister finally lived up to his name. Forth time riding him and he broke my leg. I didn't feel any pain. Only thing I felt was pure exhilaration. I felt invincible. Hell, I wanted Sinister to stomp my other leg.

I shouted at him: _"Let me have it! Fucker! Let me have it"_

I'm starving. Sinister is the only thing that can feed me. His rage burns me on.

I grin; it was only after they put me on the stretcher that I felt the earth shattering pain.

* * *

"You can't control the bulls Darrel, you can only control yourself." Mr. Stead is right. But I can't even control myself anymore.

* * *

"Why do you ride, Darrel?" Jo pulls her chair closer to my bed. They gave me morphine and I'm loopy. Jo just makes me loopier. I give her a big grin.

She smiles, slightly. "No, I'm serious, you're a smart guy…"

"Glory! Lordy! You sure them nurses didn't sneak you some morphine when I wasn't looking?"

She sighs, but laughs; Jo hates it when I interrupt her.

"I actually want to know, what makes you stick with the rodeo?" Her voice, her eyes, have no judgment to them at all. She genuinely wants to know because she cares about me and wants to know more about me.

I feel a rush come to my head. Jo is better than morphine.

"It's a rush Jo, I can't describe it, but there's this tension and release and power Jo-there's this mighty power that surges through me and I can't control it. When I'm on that bull, I'm not myself Jo, I'm free."

She shakes her head, "that's not it Darrel, there's got to be something more." She leans towards me, her head only a few inches above my chest Her eyes are curious and open and welcoming.

She's right, that ain't it. I don't tell her that riding that bull is better than fucking. I feel my ears turn pink. I don't tell her that the rush I get after riding those bulls I can only satisfy by sneaking in a visit to a whore. We don't usually do nothing, me and the girl. I just hold her. Sometimes she climbs on my back and she rides me like I'm the bull. But Jo is my girl and I don't want to end up with none of them nasty diseases those girls pass out like baseball cards.

I never tell Jo about the whores. The way I figure it, since I'm not sleeping with them, heck I ain't even really kissing them, she don't need to know.

I look at Jo. Just looking at her legs I feel myself tense up. She's perfect. She's curvy and I want to squeeze her. No, I want to eat her. Devour her. I don't know what to do. I 've never felt this way before about a girl. Yeah, I ain't no Boy Scout when it comes to the fairer sex, but my feelings towards Jo are different. I want to bite her and feel her between my tongue. Feel her warmth, feel her. I'm hungry.

When she leaves the room I violently thrust up and down, just like I'm on the bull. I'm still thrusting with the nurse comes in. I turn red, she turns red. I laugh. You better believe it's damn embarrassing.

* * *

I can't ride for a couple of months, got to give those bones time to heal. Jo gives me an even bigger release than those bulls. I thrust back and forth just like I'm on the bull.

She's hungry too. If I devour her up; she sucks through the marrow of my bone. She's rough and gentle at the same time. I like that. She don't take shit from no one. She burns me. But she's not enough. No matter how much I take from her I want more. I want her always.

She's magic.

* * *

I'm back on my bulls. I slam into the ground. I like it too. I ride 'em rough. They throw me rough. Just like Jo.

* * *

The rodeo attracts all kinds of people: kids, cowboys, kids who wish they were cowboys, roughnecks, bettors, families, oil men. We're all here.

* * *

Jo takes care of me. Always. She soothes my wounds. If I scream out in pain why she's putting alcohol on as disinfectant, she just rolls her eyes, "it's not that bad, come on."

* * *

Jo and me talk. I tell her my secrets. She tells me hers. She has a lot of secrets. But that's good, I don't want to be the only person holding everything. But she's strong. She'll never be broken. She's a wild stallion. I love her.

* * *

"I feel too much," I tell Jo. It's true. I feel too much anger, rage, excitement, everything. Don't matter what it is, I feel it. My bulls are the only way I get release from my feelings.

She grabs my hand, "sometimes I think that I don't feel enough. That all I do is think. I'm too cold Darrel, too rigid. I wish I could feel like you feel." My eyes bugged out, Jo's never told me this.

Before I can say anything she looks at me and laughs, "I guess that's why we get along so well, I think and you feel. Quite a couple we make!"

* * *

One day, outta the blue, Jo looks at me. "I get it," Jo tells me. "I get why you love the rodeo."

I smile.

She gets _me._

* * *

I don't ride horses anymore. I used to ride bronc and ride bulls. Now I just ride bulls. The horses remind me too much of Buttercup.

* * *

I never bet on race until now. Got myself $50.00. Bought Jo a bunch of gifts. She didn't want any of it. I threw them away. But the next day I went back and bet on more horses. They always take what I give 'em.

* * *

Jo talks to me, or tries to talk to me. Tells me to stay out of trouble. I can't. I'm her colt. Always got to get myself in trouble.

I joke with her. She don't laugh.

* * *

I see Jo less and less. When I ask her what's wrong she doesn't say anything. But I know she's mad at me. We still screw. Her anger turns me on. Our bedroom is a rodeo. I ain't never wanna get off.

* * *

When I exit the ring and I'm still piping hot I just find myself a fight. I fight dirty. Don't matter what the cause is. I saw a guy slap this girl and call her a 'stupid whore.' I didn't know either one of them but I was hungry.

I didn't say nothing I just walked up to him and punched him out cold. One punch.

You shouldn't hit women or say nasty things like that to their faces; but I didn't punch him out to defend her honor. I wanted that release. I wanted that punch.

My breath became heavy. I panted and leaned over him.

The girl didn't even thank me. Stupid whore.

* * *

The asshole I punched was Mr. Martin's nephew. Since Mr. Martin runs the rodeo circuit, I was out of a job. I shoulda just let him slap that girl. I don't drink, I ain't my Daddy, but I do everything else. It don't matter. I make money on the side working for a bootlegger. Yeah, I'm a hypocrite. But ain't we all? I pack a heater. I would tell you I'm too afraid to use it, but that's a lie. I ain't afraid of nothing.

'Cept Jo, when she gets angry. Damn. She's scary.

* * *

Jo is in my room. She is naked. God she is devastating. She looks at me and runs her hands over her body, 'you want this, don't you, you want this! You like it, you like it." Her voice is sultry and deep.

I nod. Hell ya I wanted it. Hell ya, I NEEDED it.

She shook her head at me. She got a look in her eye. It's a dangerous look. "You ain't getting this Darrel." It's the first time she's ever said 'ain't.'

Her voice is steady, but her eyes are watering, "I can't take it Darrel. I can't take the fighting, the gambling, the rage, I can't take it Darrel. I've been holding this inside for so many months but I can't take you anymore. It's over."

She puts her clothes on and walks out.

Well, I'll be damned. My girl, or the woman who once was my girl, has a breaking point-and I'm it. I finally broke her.

I still can't get over that she said 'ain't.'

* * *

"You like it! You like it!" My body leans over her. I have a dangerous gleam in my eye.

She's this skinny little trollop of a girl who always hangs around the rodeo. She's naked and I'm hoovering over her, I haven't done nothing yet, but I want to make sure that she tells me she likes it.

She looks scared. She look like she don't want to be in this dirty room, don't want to be with me. I sigh and yell and her to get out of the room. She looks grateful. She quickly gets dress and holds her body tight. She doesn't look at me when she leaves the room.

"Sorry" she said, "it's my first time."

I felt ashamed.

* * *

Jo's words haunt me. She haunts me. She is a ghost. Or a Vampire.

* * *

I run into Jo's little brother Rollo. "What the heck is wrong with you, Curtis?" I gotta laugh, even when he's mad the worst word that comes out of his mouth is 'heck.'

"Don't you know how much my sister loves you?"

I ain't in the mood for this conversation.

"Yeah, she sure do show it by leavin' me." I flick my cigarette ash towards him. He flinches.

"She didn't leave you, you left her with all of your carrying on. My sister is the smartest person I know, but she doesn't always have her head on straight. I used to get why she liked you. Heck, we all liked you. But now? I don't get it. You're not good enough to lick her shoes, Curtis. But she still likes you."

Rollo looked down on the ground and mummered to himself, "she still loves you. I don't get it."

Yeah, I don't get it either. Guess Jo ain't as smart as Rollo thinks she is.

* * *

I was wrong. I don't want to devour Jo, I want her to devour me. I want her to eat me. She already has my soul. I'm hers.

* * *

I never got to use my heater, but some fast talkin' guy used one on me. Grazed me. Stung me more than anything. It felt good-almost. First time I felt something other than anger in a long while. I didn't go to the hospital, would have led to too many questions. Got some guy who went by the name of "Doc" to take it out. That hurt like a bitch. Hurt worst than getting shot. He was covered with tattoos. His tattoo reminded me of the branding on cattle.

* * *

Being shot can still give you a kick in the pants. I knew from the minute Jo left I wanted her back, but I was too afraid. Too afraid that she wouldn't take me back. But now, I'm going to do everything I can to win her. Take me Jo. TAKE ME! I ain't nothin' without you.

* * *

Jo is pregnant. That's why she left me. She didn't want to deal with me. It was either the baby or me and she chose the baby. Can't say I blame her. I don't like the idea of Jo being an unwed mother. She ain't that kind of girl, she's a good one. But Jo stopped caring about what other people think.

She sure picked a doozy of a time to stop carrying about what other people think.

But she's gonna have my baby and I love her. I don't want anyone else to claim them. I want to tag 'em, brand em, show the world that they're mind. Because I'm theirs. They got me.

I beg her for forgiveness. I send her flowers. I buy some stuff for the baby. I've never shopped for baby stuff before, Lucy helps me pick out a crib.

I get a job. A real job, a legitimate job. I want to prove to her that I'm worthy of her. But I'm not, I'm not worthy at all. I'm crud under her boot.

* * *

I don't want to have a kid, but I want Jo.

* * *

Daddy and me make up. Daddy builds Jo a rocking chair. Mama don't like me.

* * *

Jo forgives me. She _forgives_ **me**. We get married. I don't have my bulls or my adventures but I got my girl. She sustains me. She makes me laugh again. For the first time in a long while I begin to smile, and then grin, and then chuckle and then let out a belly laugh. It feels good. Letting go of this anger.

I make Jo laugh too. It's the least I can do for her.

* * *

I get a small tattoo on my left shoulder that says "Jo." I'm branded for life.

* * *

Jo gave birth to a dead baby. She almost died in labor. All Jo can think of is our beautiful dead baby girl. But all I can think of is that our beautiful dead baby girl almost killed her mama.

* * *

For the first time, I have to be the strong one and I take care of Jo. I want to go back to when we were younger. Before we became the people we are now.

* * *

Paddy is broken. Jo holds me together. She's the strong one our family. She's the muscles.

* * *

 _Giddy up, giddy up, giddy up, whoa!_

 _My Pony Boy_

 _-song lyrics by Bobby Heath and Charlie O'Donnell, 1909_

* * *

We have three sons. Jo helped me get back to my old self again. I laugh and make jokes all the time. But Jo knows. Jo knows that behind my laughing eyes there is still this rage and hurt. Jo is the only person who gets me. I don't need a tattoo to show everyone that I'm hers. You just got to look in my eyes when I look at her.

She is my everything.

* * *

I roughhouse with my boys and tickle them and give the 'bull' and 'horse' rides. They make me laugh, my boys. I see Jo in all of them.

I see Jo in Pony's love of the stars and his smarts. I see Jo in Soda's good looks and compassion. Most of all, I see Jo in Darry. I love all of my boys, but Darry is my buddy. He is my hero, just like his mama. He is his mother's son.

* * *

Jo and me ride horses down at the stables. Just the two of us. She still gets mad as a hornet when she makes a mistake. It still annoys me.

* * *

We're watching our son. He's riding a pony and he's real good at it. I mean, the kid is a natural. Jo grins at me, "he's just like you." Jo is wrong, Soda isn't like me. Soda is good.

Sodapop comes off his pony ride covered in mud. He stayed on the horse alright, just tripped over the trough. He has a small cut on his chin. But he's all smiles.

Soda grins at us, "did ya see me?! Did ya? I did real good out there!"

On the car ride home, Soda, in the back seat, pumps up his fist, "I LOVE HORSES!"

* * *

"I got me a real wild pony, Dad. He never listens and is always causing a big ruckus."

"Yeah?"

Soda nods, "but that's okay, I ain't giving up on him."

See, what did I tell you? He's Jo's son.

* * *

Jo looks at me, a look filled with compassion and firmness. "It's not the same Darrel. You are not your father."

They took Soda's horse, Mickey Mouse. That kid adored that horse. I did everything I could to get it back for him. But I failed. I shook my head, if Jo saw Soda's face. If Jo saw how Pony was tryin' to comfort him, she'll understand, I'm just like my daddy.

* * *

Soda rides saddle bronc. Even Darry gets excited watching his little brother. In fact, he's Soda's biggest cheerleader. We make quite a lot of noise, we whoop and holler and scream his name. I start, then Darry joins in, then Pony and finally Jo.

I look at Soda. My goofy, carefree, wisecracking, son looks determined.

I know that look.

"He's hungry," I tell Jo, pride filling my voice.

Pony scrunches up his nose, "he just ate a real big breakfast." But then to my surprise Pony looks at his brother, "oh, you're not talking about that kind of hunger, are you, Dad?"

* * *

Soda is gorgeous kid. But I ain't never seen him look so perfect as he does when he's riding his horse.

* * *

He rides wild, but he don't ride angry. That's the difference between us. He's wild and carefree.

* * *

It's different when it's your kid. Riding rodeo ain't for the faint of heart. There's a danger in the sport, a real chance that you could die; of course that fear is part of the reason so many of us love the sport. I got broken bones, concussions, everything, from the rodeo. But seeing my kid lying on the ground. Hurt. I wanted to die. Hell, I did die for a moment.

* * *

"Soda, you can't ride bronc anymore. When you turn eighteen, you can do whatever you want. But I ain't giving you up yet, Soda."

"I'm gonna get back on my horse one day, Dad."

I don't doubt him. That's what's scares me.

* * *

 ** _Tulsa, 1970_**

 _The man has long, blondish-brown hair that goes past his shoulders. He has a golden-brown goatee. His sits down, his back against the wall, his legs straight in front of him like an arrow._

 _He casually combs his hand through his hair and pulls it back behind his ears. He itches his chin for a few seconds and picks at a scar, drawing a little bit of blood. "Damn" the man says, but there is no emotion behind his curse._

 _There is a small trace of blood on his thumb and he puts his thumb in his mouth for a second to wash away the blood._

 _He is dressed in Levis and a blue flannel shirt. The first button on his shirt is open, revealing a bit of his chest._

 _He adjusts his seat and moves to a cross legged position. He looks down at his brown Doc Martens, they're caked in dried mud and grass. He blinks his eyes as if he's just noticing how dirty his shoes are._

 _Another man, in his late twenties eyes him. This man has curly, dark hair and a mustache. He is shirtless. Just above his right nipple is a tiny dove tattoo. This man looks tired._

 _"Hey man, you want me to shoot you up?"_

 _The younger man tries to smile, but it comes out as a sneer, "shoot, ain't my first time at the rodeo." There's a degree of annoyance in his voice, but his soft, slow twang deceptively masks any harshness._

 _The younger man rolls up his sleeve finds the vein and injects himself. He takes a deep out breath. He closes his eyes and a sleepy smile forms on his mouth._

 _The other man looks at him, "how you doin' over there?"_

 _The younger man nods and smiles, looking at the other man for the first time. "Nice, it's real nice, man." The word'nice' rolls around in his mouth and it comes out as a lazy 'naaace.'_

 _The younger man looks out of place here. He's a big guy, 5'11, with a pretty good build; he doesn't really look like a guy who knows how to shoot up. Even high he gives the impression of someone who could easily take on anyone in this joint, one hand behind his back, or to make a more apt analogy, one needle in his arm._

 _He has dark brown eyes and for the first time since he walked in the room, they seem relaxed._

 _"What's your name, cat?" the older man asks._

 _"Sodapop."_

 _The older man gives "Sodapop" a slight nod. Almost everyone in the joint goes by street names, it made it easier to protect people identities._

* * *

 _Sodapop Curtis doesn't want to be rude, but he hopes the man shuts up soon. It's hard to enjoy the experience when some guy is yapping in his face asking him in his name and shit._

 _But nothing and no one can bother or hurt Soda now. He's okay now. He's finally back on his horse._

 _Soda sighs and smiles. He loves his horses._

* * *

 **S.E. Hinton owns.**

 **Thanks to everyone who's reviewed the last chapter. Special shout out to the fabulous criminaloutsider'sgirl14; thanks for your review! :)**

 **Reviews are my meat. Feed me. ;)**

 **sorry for any editing errors, I know I probably have typos that I missed and am going to have to fix!**


	12. The Sunny Day

**Apologize in advanced for errors, I have a massive cold. (Yeah, I know, what's my excuse on the other days?! ;) ). This story has been sitting around my computer for a couple of weeks, decided to upload it. The main part takes places when Darrel is six, for some reason, I really love him at this age.**

* * *

My mother was not what most people would consider good looking. She was a bony, tiny woman with a narrow face, a sharp chin and thin blood colored lips. Her eyebrows, a gift from her Scottish Daddy, were thick, unruly and grew together. Her hair, which she got from her Indian mama, was long and dark and framed her face like one those black curtains they have up at the peep shows.

Not that I've ever seen 'em peep shows. _Ha._

But, she was stunning.

Her eyes were what my Grandma Shane would call 'hoodoo' eyes. They could curse and bless you at the same time with their power. They were large and they took over half her face. They were bright green eyes, emerald eyes. If you woulda told me that Mama's eyes could glow in the dark, I would have believed you. She had real long eye lashes.

When we was little boys our Daddy would joke to me and Paddy, "now y'all be good, ya hear? Your Mama has them magic eyes, she sees _everythaang_."

We believed him.

No matter what she was doing, her eyes never knew a moment of rest. They darted back and forth like a baby calf stuck in its pen. Always searching for _something_. You couldn't help but stare at her, watching the tiny dark woman with the crystal clear emerald eyes.

But stare as I did, I never got her.

We all had different ways of dealing with Mama's fixations and obsessions; Daddy drank, Paddy, I realize now, hid inside himself; and I, my family's resident jackass, fought her.

Mama and me were champion wrestlers. Mama would lay into me, and you better believe me good, I would give right back to her. I'd never struck her, of course, but my words could do all the jabbing for me. Daddy used to always take Mama's side, adding his shout, his belt, and sometimes a switch from the tree in back, to Mama's words. As we grew older and Mama and Daddy grew apart, Daddy began to take my side.

Patrick refereed from the sidelines, intervening when we started to skirt the line from temporary harm to permanent damage, which in our household was a very thin line indeed.

But in spite of my big temper and even bigger attitude, it was never a fair fight. For one, Mama fought dirty, she knew how to push my buttons. For another, no matter how much I wanted to, I just could never land that knockout punch. She was, after all, still my mama.

But it wasn't them screaming matches that keep me awake. It was the periods of calm. It was the feelings of warm maple syrup running down my chin and Mama holding me in her arms, calling me her 'little lion.' It was the way her face lit up like a thousand suns when I showed her a picture I drew for her in school. It was the smell of her skin, lavender and flour, that I breathed in when she put me in the bath.

It was the feeling of her hands, her soft hands, gently soaping my back.

If Mama was plain crazy, plain evil, plain mean, it would be easier to let her go; but she wasn't. She had these moments of calm- gentleness and moments where her lap was so filled with love I never wanted to get off. Even if I knew that like a bull, she was capable of tossing me off at any moment.

But just as soon as were soaking up her love, the raging tornado would come and sweep us up. In my house you just never knew if you would wake up to the sun or to the storm.

* * *

I was six the first time I failed to keep a secret. Mama had recently gone from being a curious visitor to an enthusiastic member of Brother Elijah's church and swallowed the bullshit he fed her whole hog, entrails and all. Among ol' Elijah's rules for 'clean living' was a prohibition on photography. We didn't have many family photos, but what me and Paddy did have were baseball cards.

Mama didn't approve of baseball cards or baseball players. She believed that baseball players, were like most of the world, destined for Hell, "what with all of their swearin', chewin' tabacco, fightin' playin' on Sunday and heaven knows what else." Mama would say this last part real ominous like, and at age six I had no idea what could be worse than swearing and fighting.

So into the trash our baseball cards went. Mama got us both a bookmark with a Bible verse printed on it- as if _that_ was a fair trade off. Mine had a picture of Noah's Arc and Paddy 's had a picture of a lamb. They were the only Bible bookmarks Mama could find that didn't have a picture of Jesus on them. Mama thought any pictures, especially pictures of Jesus, were blasphemous.

I was six, I could barely read but I knew what blasphemous meant.

"Maybe, Jesus was ugly and that's why Mama don't like to keep his picture?" I suggested to Patrick.

"I don't think so, Mama don't keep your picture either, and you're cute."

At that age, all of Mama's dos and don'ts did nothing be confuse me. I didn't get why sometimes singing was good, while at other times it was 'dirty.' Likewise, I didn't get why reading the Bible was always to be encouraged, but reading books about cowboys was not. Personally, I'd rather read about cowboys than about burning bushes any day.

Now, you need to understand that Patrick was an even bigger baseball fan than I was. I didn't understand how he managed to stay so calm after Mama threw away his collection. Patrick, eight years old and wise to the ways of world, explained to me that we could still collect baseball cards. "but, we gotta keep it a secret. We can't tell Mama about it, or nobody. Okay?"

He leaned in towards me and put his arm around me, it was the first time Patrick ever trusted me with a secret. It made me feel real good inside.

I nodded. Let's just say that my britches were about 10 times too small that day. I felt real high and mighty keeping a secret from Mama.

After a few months of clandestine trades and scouring through Cracker Jack boxes I found the real McCoy, a Babe Ruth baseball card.

Even Paddy, a Lou Gehrig fan to this day, was impressed by my find. He was so impressed he offered me his entire collection and a "genuine whistle" in exchange for my Babe Ruth card.

When I shook my head no, he got uncharacteristically mad. Stomping his foot on the ground and crossing his arms, he whined, "oh, come on Darrel! Don't be such an egg! It's practically a steal, I'm giving you all of my cards and you only have to give me one of yours."

"I ain't no egg Patrick Curtis! And if you keep on callin' me that, I'll get you one!" I made a fist, I wasn't going to sock my brother one, but Daddy always told me that you should always be looking like you're itching for a fight. You got to make 'em scared of you, else, they'll just walk right over you.

I may have only been six years old, but I figured if Patrick wanted my card that badly, it must be worth a lot. And as much as I loved my brother, I sure did love Babe Ruth.

After an entire day of not speaking to me and slamming the door in my face, Paddy forgave me for "being an egg." That night I slept with that baseball card under my pillow.

To me, that baseball card was a lucky charm. That week I rode my first bull calf, Paddy, who normally had trouble even making friends, joined a local baseball team; Daddy was sober and full of good humor and even Mama was real nice and easy with us.

I fall asleep in her lap. She didn't even complain when I accidently knocked my big ol' head against her boobs-even though I'm sure it hurt her plenty.

She fixed me my favorite breakfast, toast with jam and butter, and told me that I was the "sweetest boy in the world."

I smiled nervously, wondering what she would say if she knew Paddy and I were collecting baseball cards behind her back.

But, as my Daddy would say, we Curtises ain't got the luck of a jackrabbit; and by the end of the week my magic charm had lost its spell. It happened during dinner. Every Friday, Mama would make us stand up before we ate, and talk about all of the things we were grateful for. Now, usually, Mama would get real mad at the things on my 'grateful list': "Dear Yahweh, Thank you for letting me punch stupid Charles Baker real good!"

But this Friday, I had real things to be grateful for.

"Thank YOU YAHWEH for the week we had! We had a great week! So keep up the good work Yahweh!" At this point, I might add that that my daddy was nearly in the floor in hysterics, and even Mama, who never found any humor in God, was trying to hide a smile. I continued, "THANK YOU for helping Paddy join them baseball team. Now, Yahweh if only You could make him starting pitcher, that would make him real, real happy! Oh, and THANK YOU for letting me ride first bull."

I then went on to describe in minute detail all about my first bull ride. Mama was making noises with her throat to try to get me to shut up. "Darrel, you hush up now, we all like to get a chance to speak our piece."

"Yeah, Darrel, He saw you ride the bull, he don't need no play by play," Paddy retorted. I was just close to sticking my tongue out at my brother, but at the mention of 'play by play' I remembered the one thing I was most grateful for; the magic charm which set off this great week.

"And most of all Yahweh, THANK YOU for the Babe Ruth baseball card! It was real nifty of You to give it to me! You're A-OKAY, Yahweh. Now maybe…"

I was about to ask Yahweh to give Paddy a Babe Ruth card of his own, when Mama cut me off.

"What baseball card?" Her voice was small and almost childlike.

 _Rats._

Paddy was eyes went bright wide with fear, and I started to stammer. "Um, I don't mean, nothin' Mama…"

She didn't believe me.

Her entire demenour changed to that of a caged animal. She got down in our faces and glared, "have you two been collectin' baseball cards after I forbid ya?" Her voice was so filled with rage that she spit out the words, spraying up with her righteous fury.

"No!" My first instinct was to lie.

"Yes, Mama," Paddy's first instinct was to tell the truth and beg for mercy.

Just like that our sunshine turned into a thunder storm.

"Okay, you two, in the closet." She shook so much I thought she was having a fit.

My daddy, a man who never ran out of words, except when it came to our mama, put his hands over her arms, hugging her as if he was trying to take hold of her anger, "come on, Laur, Rachel, darlin' they just little boys…"

"I ain't no little boy, Daddy!"

"Shut up Darrel!" Both Daddy AND Paddy said in unison. Daddy bopped me on the head one, not real hard, just enough to get the point across.

Daddy turned from me and continued to sweet talk Mama, "I know they shouldn't be collectin' them cards after you told them not too, but maybe just let it go, darlin' come on, it's okay, just be real easy and let them go…"

My daddy might have been a giant bull of a man with a temper to match, but he could be almost soothing when he wanted to.

Even at that age, I could tell that Daddy's honey sweet words and deep solid baritone were having an effect on Mama. Heck, even I felt calm listening to him. Her face grew calm; but Mama always believed that a wolf always hid in sheep's clothing, and even Daddy's nice words couldn't fully relax her. If anything, they drew her deeper into the well of anger.

Not only were her sons disobeying her, her husband was taking our side! It was too much. Any hope we had that Mama might calm down on her own ended the moment our daddy whispered sweet words into her ears.

She broke away from Daddy's grip and grabbed Paddy and me by the arms and practically carried us upstairs.

Our father; big, strong, larger than life watched without expression.

"Mama, it ain't Darrel's fault, don't punish him. I was the one who told him to keep the baseball cards. You should punish me."

I shot Patrick a grateful smile, he always took up for me, even after I go him in trouble.

Mama just dug her fingernails deeper into our forearms and practically tossed us into the closet.

"Sorry, Pony Boy," Paddy whispered to me, he looked like he was gonna start bawling.

She returned with two Bibles. She told us we couldn't leave until she told us we could. She kept the light on the room on, and kept the closet door ajar with a wooden chair, so we could still have enough light coming into our prison.

I could still hear her hot and heavy breathing as she marched out of our room.

"You two read The Book and beg Yahweh for forgiveness!" I didn't tell her that I could barely read at all.

It seemed like we were in there for hours, but it was probably just an hour.

At one point, I thought about knocking the chair over and making an escape, "come on, Paddy, we'll be just like Pretty Boy Floyd!"

"What do you know 'bout Pretty Boy Floyd?" Patrick asked me in an incredulous tone.

"I saw him before they showed that Gene Autry picture, remember the one Daddy took me too?" I began to sing my favorite "Singing Cowboy" songs.

Patrick put his hand on my mouth, "hey, Paddy what's the big deal?!" I tried to ask, but it was hard with his hand covering my mouth.

Patrick explained that we didn't want Mama to hear us, and besides if we escape, we'd just get a whuppin, and not just a Mama whipping, which was nothing, but a Daddy whipping which hurt like the dickens.

I gave my brother a disappointed nod; Patrick was logical and smart, but he wasn't always a lot of fun.

"I'm sorry Paddy, for getting' you in trouble and all. Guess I can't keep no secret."

Patrick just put his arms around me, "it's okay, I shouldn't make a little kid keep a secret from Mama."

Then Patrick continued, "why is she like this Darrel? I don't get it. Like one moment she's real sweet to us and gives us extra hugs and bakes up real good pies, but the next moment she goes all in a tizzy and throws us in a closet."

"Cause she a witch!" I knew all about witches. Daddy told me that his mama's side of the family had real witches, warlocks and wizards floating around the family tree, causing a heap of trouble for people.

But Paddy just shook his head, "I don't think so, Pony Boy, I mean, there gotta be somethin' going on in Mama's head that she gets so shook up."

But at age six, stuck in a closet with my big brother, I didn't care about why Mama acted so messed up, I just knew she did. "It's cause she's the biggest witch in the whole wide world…"

It was Patrick who never had a bad word to say against anybody who continued my thought for me, "she's a she-devil."

We laughed, but it's one of 'em bellyache laughs, it ain't good thinking about your Mama being a she-devil.

Downstairs Daddy was yelling at Mama. We hardly ever heard Daddy yell at Mama, but he was going off on her.

I almost felt sorry for her, at age six I hated hearing my mother get yelled at; but before the sympathy entered my heart, Mama gave it right back to him ten-times.

"I'd rather have them boys HATE me than risk their souls in Hell! You know how hard I got to work for this family? You think I don't notice you all ramblin' and carryin' on, you drunkard. I ain't blind to your sinning ways Dale Curtis! I'm doin' my best with help from Yahweh to make sure my babies don't end up like you!"

Until that point I've never heard my mother speak with such venom to anyone. It wasn't just the words she said, but how she said them. I couldn't see my mother, but I could feel her. My skin felt cold and my heart dropped into my stomach. All of her hatred, her anger, her hurt, was getting thrown at my daddy. I imagined Daddy, his face falling and his heart hurt; and for the first time in my life, I hated my mother.

Maybe it was cause our house was real old and decrepit, but I swear the entire foundation shook with her words.

We heard the door slam. Our father, who never hesitated to beat up a man for an insult real or imagined; and who would beat us boys with his belt for minor infractions, never once raised his hand to our mother. That, from what I could see, made him a rare bird in our neighborhood.

After twenty minutes or so Mama-warden came into our prison, she stood in front of the ajar closet door, blocking the light with her tiny body.

Her face was soft again, and when she saw us looking at her with such a look of betrayal and bewilderment, she looked like she was going to fall apart again.

This time not from anger but from sadness.

She started to shake and her voice kept getting stuck in her throat.

"I'm so sorry boys, I'm sorry. But you two need to behave! When I tell you not to do something you need obey you Mama, just like the Bible say!" Her voice was broken and she looked real sorry.

She was close to tears, and I felt my heart melt for her, "I ain't tryin' to be mean boys, I just don't wanna you to end up like…" Her voice cut off and her eyes turned dark and pressed.

I remembered her words earlier and knew she was thinking of my Daddy; but I didn't get what Daddy did that made Mama so mad. Her eyes were completely empty, it was almost as if her soul floated away from her body.

Mama shook, like the way a pony does when he's gets too cold.

She pulled us into a hug, "promise me boys you always gonna obey Yahweh. Promise me…Even above obeyin' me or Daddy, you got to obey Yahweh always."

I gave her a look of surprise, I'd never heard an adult tell a kid they didn't have to obey them 100%.

"Mama," Paddy looked real concerned, "are we going to Hell?"

She pulled us in closer, "I'm gonna do all my mighty I can to protect you two."

I looked at my Mama, the light in our room floated around her head like a halo. She looked, for the first time that I could remember, like she was at peace. She smiled at me. It wasn't the goofy, half crazed smile of my daddy; but it was a smile that was soft and gentle.

It was the smile of the woman that I wished was my mother. It was only there for a few seconds, but it was there.

She loved me, my Mama really did love me. Years later when my relationship with my mother broke down completely I still grasped on to that memory, grasped on to the fact that at one point at least, Mama loved me with such an intense love, that even though we were in a semi-dark closet, I was nearly blinded by her light.

"Do you still love Daddy?" I asked with concern. I didn't think it was right for me and Paddy to have Mama's love and make Daddy go without. I learned all about sharing and fairness at school.

Mama looked at me with surprise, "I love your daddy more than the stars and moon and sun," and in her voice I could only hear love for my father and love for us.

I felt guilty for thinking of my beautiful mother as the 'she-devil;' and if I felt guilty, I knew Paddy was beside himself.

Patrick always felt things on a deeper level than I did.

"Come on you two, let's go outside, Yahweh has given us a beautiful sunshine, we best enjoy it." And with that Mama took our hands and we walked out of the room together.

Once more our storm had lifted revealing a brilliant sun.

But I never forgot that behind the sun laid some very dark clouds.

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 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns**

 **Gene Autry AKA "The Singing Cowboy" was a movie star in the 1920s/1930s; I have spared my readers the 'joy' of having to listen to little Darrel Curtis try to sing. You're welcome. ;)**

 **Pretty Boy Floyd was notorious bank robber, bandit, murderer, folk-hero from Eastern Oklahoma.**

 **Charles Baker is a homage to Charles Baker (Dill) Harris from To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee**

 **Thanks you for reading!**


	13. He and She

**A/N: Why, what is this, an update?! Well sort of. I'm wanting to get back to Darrel Sr's story, but since I haven't written him in a while, I want to ease my way into it. The result: this plotless (but hopefully not pointless!) chapter looking at Darrel and Jo Curtis. As always thank you so much for reading. :) Your support means so much.**

* * *

The first thing he said to her was "why hello there! who are ya?"

The first thing she said to him was, "who am I? I live here, who are _you?_ "

He grinned.

She may have rolled her eyes. She hoped not, because that would have been rude and mean. She didn't want to come across mean.

He didn't notice anything about her the first time they met, but he did notice that some kid was eating all of the chocolate chip cookies Mrs. Stead had baked for him. Darnit.

She noticed his goofy, lopsided grin, dark brown eyes, dirty finger nails, untied shoe lace (right foot), two slight cowlicks in his hair, and his voice-which was the fastest Southern drawl she'd ever heard. The boy sounded out of breath. Did he run from wherever he came from? Maybe she should offer him a seat, and offer him some water too? Maybe he would like something to eat? She wasn't a good cook, and she felt uncomfortable raiding Aunt Minerva's cupboards, even though Uncle Charlie and Aunt Minerva assured her that this was 'your home too.' Oh, and he kept on eyeing the cookies on her brother Johnny's plate.

He was born in Oklahoma in 1925

She was born in New York City in 1925

He was friendly to everyone.

She kept to herself.

He thought of Mr. and Mrs. Stead as his "sorta parents" He always called them Mr. and Mrs. Stead. He wished he could live with them.

She was Mrs. Stead's second cousin. She always called them Uncle Charlie and Aunt Minerva. She and her family moved in with the Steads after they lost their own home in Kansas. She wished she could still live in Kansas.

He had dark brown hair and dark brown eyes.

She had light golden blonde hair and light blue eyes.

He had no freckles on his face.

She had freckles all over.

He turned suntanned brown in the summer.

She turned sunburned pink in the summer.

He loved everything about her, including the parts of herself she didn't like.

She hated her teeth.

He had a wide torso and thick fingers.

She had long legs and long fingers.

His ears stuck out.

Her front teeth stuck out and were chipped.

His face was shaped like a square.

Her face was shaped like a heart.

He had one older brother.

She had one older sister and three younger brothers.

Growing up, he wanted to be a cowboy.

She still wanted to be a detective.

He used words like "ain't"

She didn't.

He had a high I.Q. but dropped out of school.

Her IQ score was nothing to brag about, but she studied her way onto the Honor Roll.

His favorite class was gym; when he wasn't ditching.

Her favorite class was math, followed by chemistry, history and English.

He beat up bullies on the playground during recess.

She preferred to spend her recesses inside, doing puzzles.

He saved her from drowning in a river.

She saved him from drowning in a lake of hate and anger.

He fell head over heels in love with her in an instance so brief he could not remember a time where she wasn't his one and only.

She took years to fall in love with him, but once she did, he was hers forever.

He rode bulls, Saddle Bronc, Bare Bronc at rodeos.

She played six on six girls basketball team.

He endured one broken leg two cracked ribs and ten stitches to his right arm during one bull ride.

She endured one sprained ankle and one sprained finger during the course of her entire basketball career.

He smoked reefer, chewed tobacco and drank beer. His father told him the first time he drowned a whiskey that he was a 'chip off the ol' block.' That's when he threw up.

She smoked cigarettes. A lot of cigarettes. Her mother told her it was 'unlady like.'

He grew up watching cowboy movies in secret because his mother disapproved.

She grew up reading Nancy Drew novels because her mother encouraged her.

His favorite story of all time was a little short story that his youngest son wrote in 7th grade, "kid is the only writer worth readin'"

Her favorite book was "Ulysses" by James Joyce.

He loved to tell stories and tall tales, because he wanted to make her smile.

She loved to listen to his stories, they made her smile, sometimes in spite of herself.

He left home when he was sixteen and slept wherever he could to avoid the thump of the cop's baton on his back.

She would rub his sore back.

He worked the rodeo circuit.

She worried that he would get killed.

He wasn't sure if there existed a higher power.

She believed that the Light of God existed within everyone, even the police man who beat him up.

He believed if there was a Light of God it existed in her and their three children, but not within him.

He sometimes spoke with his fists before he had time to think. He didn't feel bad afterwards. After all, the asshole probably deserved it.

She sometimes spoke the very first thing that came to her mind before she had time to think. She usually felt horrible afterwards; she never meant to hurt someone's feelings.

He had a hidden talent for playing the guitar.

She had a hidden talent for skeet shooting.

He was more sensitive than people realized. He could feel her pain through her silence.

She was funnier than people realized. She could feel his love through his laughter.

December 17th, 1943 was the worst day of her life: her daughter was born dead.

December 17th, 1943 was the worst day of his life: his wife almost died.

She was raised a pacifist who led her family with a firm, but loving hand.

He was a jovial, big hearted bear of a man who was never afraid to drawn blood in defense of his family.

He had a wide grin.

She had a knowing smirk.

She taught him to forgive and let go of the reins of resentment.

He taught her to live for the moment and grab the bull by the horn.

He loved seeing her in each of their children.

She adored seeing him in each of their children.

His last thought was her.

Her last thought was of him.

* * *

He saw her and smiled.

She ran to embrace him, "why, hello there!"

* * *

 **A/N: SE Hinton owns.**

 **Thank you once again for reading, I know it's been a looooong time.**


	14. The Fire Next Time

_**What am I returning to this story? Yes, I think I may. This is the first chapter that Dale Curtis (Darrel's father) narrates. He describes the night his wife burns the boys teddy bears and family heirlooms in a fire**_

 _ **Warning: mention of spousal/child abuse.**_

* * *

The first time I say howdy to the devil I was but a little mite of three years old. Least that's accordin' to the danged mess that Brother Elijah got my women chokin' on. My woman is a church lady, she's biddable to the ways of the Lord, cept in her case I reckon her Lord ain't God, but Brother Elijah, a man whose asshole got plum planted where his mouth should be.

Brother Elijah got Laura believin' that fiddlin' is the language of them devil. But if fiddlin' is the language of the devil, then paint me red and call me hellbound, because I love me the fiddle. My daddy, Patrick Curtis used to fiddle, used to drink and beat Mama and us too. But when he fiddled, you woulda think the spirits of 'em trees was dancing along with him.

 _He could fiddle real wild like, and I would sit on knee, my lil' legs tearin' it up to the rhythm; my sisters Martha and Anne and brother Shane beatin their little feet in time as they skipped and jumped around Daddy._

 _Now we is a poor family, shit, my boys they ain't no nothing of real hunger or deprivation. We live in a dirt floored hovel with no windows and in the winter time my lil' pecker feels like it's gonna freeze off. But when my daddy done plays his music, we gots ourselves more fun than all 'em big ol' kings in merry England._

 _We forget we're poor, forget our bellies are rumbling for something other than bacon grease, cornmeal and whatever bits of meat we get from Daddy's huntin'. We forget the welts that turn our asses red n' black that comes from Daddy's switch, forget Daddy's stumbling 'round drunk and draggin' Mama 'round like a sack of potatoes._

 _No, when Daddy be playin' we are all smiles, Daddy most of all. Me and Shane ain't got nothing on but a long scrap of cotton fabric for a shirt, while Martha and Anne's burlap dresses are so old they barely be coverin' up their personal parts, but Lordy is we smiling. Martha and Anne hold hands and swing each other 'round and round. Shane does himself a lil jig._

 _Daddy leans into my neck and kisses it, his lips soft though his face is scarred and rough like burlap._

 _Then there's Mama, if the rest of us our smiling, Mama she's taken. She was a big woman, with broad shoulders and a proud stance, and I reckon if she ain't wearing a dress from a distance she'd be mistaken for a man. But when she dance, she danced one of 'em little fairies that lives in the water, real delicate like, then faster and faster; til soon she's movin' round like a windmill, her arms and legs moving in one direction, than the opposite direction, big streams of sweat drippin' down her face._

" _Dance woman! Dance my lady!" Daddy calls out to her, a big smile on his face._

 _Daddy plays well into the dark black night and even after the rest of us are so danged tired we is about to fall asleep, Mama she still moves like crazy._

 _Later the next night Daddy will beat Shane something awful for accidently touchin' his fiddle. But now, we are all happy._

 _Them fiddle is the only good part of my boyhood._

Laura walks through our house, and boy howdy, do she look like a woman on a mission. My woman is a small mite, ain't no more than 5'0; don't come up more than my chest; but shit, she be walkin' through our house like the devil was chasing her tail.

"What's with you woman?" I ain't exactly in no pleasurable mood. I put in a 12 hours day laborin' and my back was burned with muscle aches, my lower back was felt like a dang rock been attached to it. "You be so damn loud, you fixin' for a lickin'? Damn woman, I'm tryin to get me some rest, how the hell is I supposed'ta rest with you clanging all over the place?"

Now that was my mistake, Laura know I ain' never beat her once, never even yelled at her, though she probably deserved it. But Laura she stole my heart and slivered her thorny brown fingers round my pecker and done take a bit of my manhood with her. Lordy, I know that if it don't make me real soft, but I just can't touch that woman to do her no harm. She already had enough pain and torment piled on her to last a lifetime.

I ain't always so keen on God, but let me tell you somethin' listening to what my honey had to survive, I sure as hell believes in the devil.

Laura, in her thick wool stockings and blue dress, her church dress, the only dress she owns that don't have a mend or tear, don't even look at me.

"I'm cleanin' up Dale, now you gonna give me peace?" Her face changed from mild consternation to fear, her eyes growed real wide and her cheeks turn red. "I'm sorry Dale," she bends her head down and places her hand over her head; preparing herself from the harsh blow she's been trained like of 'em monkeys to believe is gonna come to my hand.

That's when my heart began to hurt worst than my back. I would never hurt her, but for my Laura she always be stuck back in her childhood. It breaks me into two, no, into a million pieces, that even after all these years of marriage and two babies my Laura still gets scared.

In the gentlest voice I can manage, with I gots to say ain't that soft, I tells her "it's okay my honey, you keep on cleanin' up, don't pay me no while."

So that's what she do, 'cept this time she creeps a little bit slower, her head looks down on the floor. I close my eyes and try to get some shut eye.

So, I didn't even notice that Laura has taken my fiddle, our family photos and the boys teddy bears and burned 'em up.

Paddy comes up to me, "Daddy, Daddy," he tugs his lil hand on me, and I push him way, he falls backwards. Shit, I ain't gonna beat my lady, but I sure as hell ain't got to take my boy 'ressling me when I is trying to sleep.

But he still yanks on me, which lets me know that this boy either really is itching for a beating or something is wrong. "Mama's done burn a fire," he says, and points outside and sure enough a big ol' bonfire is covering our front yard.

"Where's your brother?" I say to Paddy, Darrel gots himself a nose for trouble and I'm panicking wondering where he is while Laura scorches our front yard. Paddy points to their bedroom, and I nod.

I then run outside, the air is crackin'and hot, pieces of orange and red sparks pop through the air. My face is red and I have no idea what Laura is thinking, but when I come upon her she's standing a couple feet back from the flames, not even moving an inch as the flames wave and dance dangerously close to her skin.

Her eyes are transfixed on what's in front of her and she's so fixed that I think if our boys were burnin' in front of her she wouldn't even notice none.

"Woman! What is wrong with you?" I push her out of the way of the flames, and push her harder than I plan to. She falls backwards on the ground, her arms plop into the mud, her feet rise up then fall back down.

My breathing is rough and I'm burnin' inside. But Laura her face as biddable and peaceable as I ever done seen, just says to me, "For Yahweh is a consumin' fire." Her voice is not her voice, it's like some other woman done knocked the stuffing out of my Laura and replaced my scaredy cat girl with a woman who don't bend down and huddle in fear when she hears a man's voice.

It leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

For the first time that I remembers, she looks me in the eyes, her eyes ablaze, and I can see the flames jump and skip through her black pupils.

"What the hell gots into you?" I scream at her, my scream choking down in her throat. But she don't scrunch up or flinch. She smiles, or at least as the closest thing to a smile I ever sees on her pitiful face, "Dale, I'm sending up my offerings to the blessin' of the Lord."

That's when I look and see what her offerings are. The boys teddy bears which are the only real toys they got, photos and my fiddle.

I shake her and my fist moves back getting ready to pummel into her, but she don't move a tiddle and before my fist makes contact with her high cheekbone I am able to stop myself. I look at my shaking fist, thinking of how close I got to breaking her nose. A feeling of sickness twirls inside of me, cept I don't know if I'm sick because I almost knocked her bloody or because I didn't. I don't know no man who don't keeps his woman in line with a whippin' every now and then, but even when she's burning the only good memory of my childhood in the Devil's piss, I can't stomp her. I can't hurt her.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" I bellow, hoping my loud voice will jump some fear back into her and some of my manhood back into me.

"This family is gonna straight to hell, the ways we be livin, with your devil music and the boys and their worshipin' idols."

"Worshiping idols? Damn woman you done lost your mind." I'm still sitting on top of her, grippin' onto her fists though Laura ain't moving none.

But Laura is still as calm as can be, in a voice even and clear she tells me, "Ye shall make you no idols nor graven image, neither rear you up a standing image, neither shall ye set up any image of stone in your land, to bow down unto it: for I am the Lord your God."

I shake her harder, "this ain't no idols, woman! This is my fiddle and the boys' toys. Lordy, woman you be burnin' our wedding photo in there too."

We could have stopped the whole mess right here, but Laura done had to rise her voice like I ain't her husband, like her duty ain't to obey me, "don't be taken Yahweh's name into your moonshine mouth, Dale Curtis."

I had enough.

I yank her arms above her head and drag her back into the house. Laura makes no noise even though I'm yankin' on her plenty hard. But every now and then she looks back at the flames, a small smile still ironed on her face. She ain't scared of me. All my married life I wish and pray that Laura loses that ghost that haunts her, the ghost that keeps her up at night and her eyes wide with fear. But now that she loses that fear I swallow hard. If my woman don't fear nothing, who am I supposed to protect her from?

I ain't got much in the ways of book learnin', or money or looks, but when my woman curls up next to me, she makes me feel like a real man. But now if she don't need me...

Her dress is lifted up, her stockings slide down, but Laura is so taken by the fire she don't even try to salvage her dignity. Her undies are covered in grass stains. I don't bother to pull her dress down.

Darrel runs out to the porch, still in his lil pajamas, "is our mama dead?" He cries out, his lil face covered in tears. Paddy puts his arms around his brother, "no Darrel, Mama ain't dead." Paddy looks up at me, wondering why I'm dragging his smiling sleeping eyed Mama like a sack of potatoes.

I don' even have an answer for him.

"Mama, Mama," Darrel gets right into his mama's face, who even though she's smiling, ain't looking at him. But Darrel thinks his mama's smile is for him, so he gives her a big grin in return. My stomach turns to ice, our baby don't even realize that his mama don't never give him that kind of smile.

We stand there, the four of us. Laura still lying down, still smiling, Paddy, his arms around Darrel, and Darrel still smiling down on his Mama who is watching our lives burn up into the flames, still trying to peak around Darrel's head to catch the flames for herself. My boys don't realize it, but their childhoods are burning up in Laura's fire.

So too is my marriage, I reckon.

I put out the bonfire, the fiddle ain't nothing but a blackened carcass, one of 'em Teddy bears is nothing more than marble eyes and a burnt arm, the other one is in a bit better shape, but a piece of kindling done turned his back black. They ain't worth saving.

As for our wedding photos, and the pictures of the boys we got when they was little, there ain't even the ashes left.

When it's time to go to bed it's Darrel who discovers that his teddy bear is missing first. He screams, "I can't find my bear! Where's BoBo? I can't sleep without my bear!"

"Shut up!" I scream at him, but Darrel is still going crazy lookin' for his lil bear, lifting the covers up. I think for a second 'bout telling the boys that their teddy bears done run away, or maybe that's they're getting too ol' for toys and that I threw it away, trying to protect Laura.

But then I look at Laura, she sees Darrel workin' himself up into twister looking for his damned bear and she looks at him with no expression. That's when I hate my woman. My anger burns within me, threatening to explode. Before I know it, I pull Darrel to me, I feel his breath on my mouth, he winces as I squeeze his wrist, just like I squeezed his Mama's wrist earlier, "your mama done burned your bear, Darrel."

I let him go.

That's when my boy starts to cry. "Why, Mama?" he asks her. She says nothing, she don't have the decency to look ashamed.

Paddy puts his arm around his brother, holding him. Laura is sitting against the wall, still without expression, "I hope you're happy," I grit through my teeth at her. She gives me a little smile, she is.

The boys sleep together that night, I guess they be each other teddy bears. Darrel puts his arm around his brother, just as he done with his bear.

Laura has the gull to kiss them goodnight. But she does it like she is a piece of tin, there is no emotion or feeling in her kisses. For the first time I wonder, was there ever?

Darrel flinches away from his Mama's touch, but not Paddy, he leans into it, and when Laura lets him go, his lil arms is still around her ghost.

Usually we go ourselves a little rule round here, if I drink I do it out in the shed. Not tonight. I bring my drink into the kitchen, unsnap my overalls and suck on the bottle like it's my Mama's titty.

That shakes Laura out of her stupor. "Dale, what is you doing? Don't be drinking no devil's water in my house with my babies sleepin."

Slamming the bottle down on the table, I turn to her, "so, I guess now you can talk huh, woman?" Laura backs away, the fear she wears like a petticoat comes back on her face, "I had to, I had to."

Her fear which usually makes me scared to touch her does nothing to me tonight, before I know it, I push her onto the kitchen floor. She starts to panic, her face a twisted rope of panic and pure fear, like she seen the devil in front of her. Her legs kick and do a jig, she begs me to get off of her. She shrieks for Yahweh, shrieks for help.

I scream at her til my voice is horse, Laura keeps on screeching "I did it for the boys! Brother Elijah says…" I place my hand against her mouth, her eyes black orbs full of the worst fear I've ever done seen. I can feel her teeth move under my palm... woman, if you is gonna bite me, you best be prepared to sleep outside like a dog...

I move my hand from her mouth, which she reckons ain't worth biting, and I drop her a few inches, my hands still wrapped around her wrists, and her head bounces a bit on the floor, not real hard, but enough to make a bit of a bang. "I shoulda known that monkey was involved."

Laura grabs the back of her head, and cringes. But she don't cry or say nothing.

The moment Brother Elijah's name is mentioned the temperature in the room done changed again. Brother Elijah is Laura's fire, and my woman who was just few seconds ago screechin' in panic, now looks as peaceable as she did when she was looking at the flames.

I ain't gonna take it no more. It's one thing to have my Laura turn me all soft, but Brother Elijah? Nah, this was all his fault. He told Laura to burn our family's prized possessions. The items might not have no monetary value, but that fiddle was the only thing I owned that makes my heart glow with happiness. Now she throws it away because what that danged cotton brained Brother Elijah say?

No, I aint gonna take it.

I think of how happy Laura looked, how gentle she looked when my fiddle was burning up. A mighty roar shakes within me, if Laura was smart, she would run clear out of the kitchen and get away from me, but she is lost in her own world.

Laura is humming herself some Bible song, I let go of her wrists, my finger marks 'roud her bony wrists. I give her a dangerous smile. "You likes music, Laura?"

Laura don't say nothing.

"Well, baby, I is gonna to watch you dance. Come on baby, dance." I'm drunk. I can barely sit up myself, my balance shifty and my belly jumpy. Laura sit up and tries to move away from me, she puts her arms around her head, like a lil child escaping a beating. Usually that would break my soul, but not tonight. I violently tear her arm off her head. She grimaces an rubs her arm.

"Nah, my lovely darling, honeypie, that ain't gonna work for me tonight. Sees, even though you burned my fiddle, I still like to dance and listen to music, and now without my fiddle, I guess I is gonna have to make my own music."

Laura moves away from me, but I pull her back to me, I grab a wooden spoon, still covered in oatmeal mixture from breakfast out of the sink, and tap it against my knee. I hold one hand onto Laura, her hand sweaty.

"Dance woman, Dance my lady!"I say in a low voice. My face is snarled up like an animal. I don't know what is gonna through me, I don't wanna beat her or scream at her, no it's worse. I wanna humiliate her.

Brother Elijah thinks dancing is the devil? Well, then I am gonna make her dance. I ain't taking a backseat to no Brother Elijah.

I supposed if I was my Daddy, I woulda beaten her, but I ain't. So, I hold onto her hand and make her dance. For Laura Curtis it's a punishment worse than a licking.

"Come on sugar," I say in a fake sugary voice, hiccupping my drink between my slurred words, "you sure likes them way the flames danced. I wanna see you dance like the flames, you wanna do that for me?"

Laura shakes her head no. I break open into a laugh, "well, you ain't got no choice. I want you to dance. Don't our marriage vows say you is supposed to obey me? That I'm the master of my house?"

I look at Laura, she cannot deny me, not even Brother Elijah can get his greasy paws on our marriage vows.

Because Laura Curtis is a good Christian woman, she do exactly what I tell her. She stands up, she moves her fingers slightly from side to side, she shifts from one foot to another.

"Dance baby!" I slur out to her. She lets out a whimper and starts to move ever so slightly. I close my eyes and see my tiny woman be replaced by my Mama, and now I'm my Daddy and I'm shouting out to her, "Dance woman! Dance! Dance!"

I open my eyes, "please, please, please" she begs me for a mercy to come raining down on her, a mercy I will not give. She can barely speak, her mouth forms them words dumb.

I shake my head no. I won't be denied.

I'm too drunk, too angry, too sucked up with my own cruelty. I shake my head, and in a voice almost soft I tell her, "no, honey. You is gonna dance for me. Okay, my darling? Okay my love? My only love? Dance like you ain't never danced before. Shake the devil, my Laura love, 'reel him in and dance him off good."

Laura nods and she dances. The tears stream down her face. I keep on beatin' the wooden spoon against my leg.

Laura is crying, her chest rises softly, and part of me is sickened with shame, but I can't stop not now, I can't let her get one over me. I let her get away with too much already, I don't have nothing but my pride but Laura done stole that from me too. I need this. I need to set her humiliated, I need her to feel what I feel.

She may believe the fiddle is the devil's tool and the boys are worshipping the devil with their raggedy bears, but tonight there is only one god my Laura gots to worship: me.

Laura does spin herself round, she do a lil hop jig, she go faster and faster. For a woman who believes dancing is the devil's work, she sure can move.

I close my eyes, and now I can see all of my brothers and sisters, all eight of us dancing around in a circle round my kitchen, I can see my Daddy and Mama do a real mean jig. I grin. I love the fiddle.

That's the only time I make Laura do something against her will. I never beat my woman, and hardly yell at her, I don't even make her quit Brother Elijah because I know the real reason she joined that sucker's church in the first place. But that night, I make her dance. For me, only for me.

I think my Daddy would be real proud of how I got my woman under control. I can almost see his smiling face, sharp white teeth against soft pink lips.

The next morning everything is normal. The boys come down to breakfast. Theys probably heard me yelling, Lord, them whole damn neighborhood probably heard me screamin' away, but they don't know what else took place. Laura's humiliation is mine alone.

Laura fixes me a big plate of my favorite foods for breakfast. Paddy looks at the empty bottle on the kitchen table, and then up at me. He don't say nothing.

* * *

 _ **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns**_

 _ **Anyone notice the parallels between this chapter and The Sink? ;) Or to the book? :)**_

 _ **The Fire Next Time is from the book of the same name by James Baldwin.**_

 _ **Laura's Bible quotes are based on the King James version.**_

 _ **Thanks for R &R :) Your support means a lot. :)**_


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